


Nothing to Prove

by sarahyellow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, BDSM, Forced Bonding, Human Trafficking, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Bucky Barnes, Public Blow Jobs, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self Confidence Issues, Smut, bond marks, past physical/emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow
Summary: Steve goes undercover to bust an omega trafficking ring. He has orders to walk out with the most vulnerable victim. What he winds up with is a one-armed FBI agent with more attitude than he can handle. As they work together to bring down Hydra, the worst of circumstances wind up bringing them closer together than either of them ever could have imagined.





	1. Steve: Back in the Game

-oOo-

Steve is sitting in the back of a van, feeling awkward and hot and too big to be allowed. 

The van is one of the department’s surveillance vehicles, one of the ones where the back has no windows and no access to the driver’s compartment. Steve refers to it as a spook van in his head, the type of thing that people get thrown into in the movies after being pulled off the street and black-bagged. It’s full of police gear and computer monitors and Steve is sitting there, getting set up with a wire when the call comes through. Fury’s voice is quiet and serious through the crackle of the radio channel. He tells them that they have clearance to begin. 

Steve glances at Clint—the one crouched in front of him, fitting him with the device. He’s not someone Steve knows overly-well. As the only omega in the department and the only one on Steve’s (former) team, he’d always been unintentionally excluded from most of the comradery—after work drinks and idle chatter and such. It was never something Steve really noticed. They all worked together just fine and it hadn’t seemed to phase Clint one bit so Steve hadn’t let it phase him. It was natural for coworkers to group off based on designation, after all. 

But things are different now. Now Steve has more than one reason to feel like he’s let Clint down, and so that just makes the distance between them all the more awkward. It makes Steve wish he’d made the effort to get to know Clint better, maybe invited him out with the guys, before the explosion. Steve clears his throat of nothing, tries to pay attention to the way that this device is being taped onto him. “Any advice about this thing?” he asks, wondering what’ll happen if some goon tries to frisk him and notices it.

Clint nods and smooths the lapel of Steve’s jacket back down over where he’s hidden the wire. “Don’t do what everyone else does,” he warns, stretching back to press a few buttons on one of the consoles along the wall of the van. Steve has no idea what the buttons do, but Clint has been moved out of field work. He handles mostly tech-related things now, so apparently he’s learned what the buttons do.

“What does everyone else do?” Steve asks. He tries to speak loudly, as loud as he imagines Clint needs him to.

Clint shoots Steve a dirty look. “Speak all loud and slow and obvious. You know, like you’d do to some poor, half-deaf schmuck.” He points to one of the hearing aids that curve behind his ears. 

Steve blushes, looks down at his lap. “Sorry.”

“The mic is sensitive. It can pick up on your regular voice. So just speak normally.”

“Okay.” Steve’s not sure if Clint is referring to the wire or to his own hearing aids. “Yeah, okay.” He pushes self-consciously at the tiny device that’s been placed inside of his own ear. Steve didn’t know they made them this small. He wonders why Clint’s can’t be smaller. “You sure they won’t notice this thing?”

Clint shakes his head, bats Steve’s hand away from fiddling with it. “It’s covered in silicone and they did a good job on the makeup. Looks just like your ear.”

Steve nods. “Good. Thanks.” 

Maybe Clint can tell that he’s nervous. Maybe it’s obvious that Steve doesn’t quite have his bearings back yet, because Clint says, “Hey, take a deep breath. You’re going to do just fine. You know I won’t whisper things in your ear unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’ve been out of the game too long,” Steve mumbles, not wanting to complain but unable to resist with present company. “Fury shouldn’t have me out in the field yet. Not yet.”

Clint shoves him in the same way he would’ve six months ago; bossy and dismissive. Reassuring. “It’s been six months, not six years. And you know Fury. He doesn’t put people where they don’t belong.” Clint gestures down to himself, to the claustrophobic van. “Why do you think they’ve got me stuffed in here?”

“ _Clint_ —” 

“Besides,” Clint cuts him off. “Big strong alpha like you? Perfect candidate. Nobody’ll suspect a thing. Just gotta do a little shopping, pick out your favorite one, and transfer the money.” Clint grins at him. “You’ll be down the next block by the time the strike team even busts in.” 

Steve nods again, wipes his sweaty palms against the legs of his dress pants. They feel strange at the waist with no pistol holstered there. He’d prefer to have one just in case things go south, but he’s not allowed a weapon for tonight’s bust. Fury has made that clear. _“Don’t want to give them a reason to kick you out of the auction early,”_ he’d told Steve back at the station earlier that evening. _“Then this whole show will be ruined, and you’ll have gotten all fancy and dressed up for nothing.”_

 _“This whole show”_. It’s funny that Fury can refer to it so lightly, can act so cavalier, when it’s months of hard work on the line. Special Victims hasn’t had an opportunity to bust a trafficking ring this big in years. Steve knows there’s talk that he’ll make Lieutenant when it’s all said and done. Not that he really deserves it. Steve glances self-consciously back at Clint's hearing aids, feeling like an imposter.

A knock comes from the outside of the van and the back doors open. Steve and Clint look up at the same time to see Maria Hill standing there. She’s one of the only people from the precinct who’s designation Steve hasn’t figured out. Her scent gives little away; she could be alpha or beta, but Steve’s money is on the former. “Gentlemen,” she says briskly. “It’s time.” With a supportive slap on the back from Clint, Steve hops out of the van and onto the street. It’s wet out, the asphalt stained black from the earlier rain and a heavy mist still hanging in the air. It’s the mist that makes the darkness feel like early morning instead of the late night that it really is. Fog doesn’t gather low to the ground like that in tight quarters. It reminds Steve that they’ve left the city. “Your chariot awaits,” Maria tells Steve just as the town car pulls up. It’s being driven by another cop—Steve’s not sure who yet. He opens the door to let himself into the back. Maria ducks her head in while Steve is scooting over and buckling his seatbelt. “You’re headed for an old canning plant about a mile west,” she tells him while handing him a cell phone and a wallet. Steve knows that the wallet contains an ID with his assumed identity on it—a Dr. Steven Grant, cardiologist and rich guy supreme. “They’ll likely try to take the phone. If they do, you’re to argue but hand it over, got it?”

Steve nods. “Got it. What about the money transfer?”

“There’s a card in the wallet with a nine digit code. Give that to their money man once you’ve made your pick. That’s our signal to move in. And Steve?” She eyes him seriously. “That’s when you get your ass out of there, you and whatever omega you’ve got with you, understand?”

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows that Maria only has one mode of operation to her. “Got it Hill. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Instead of saying anything Maria simply stands back up outside of the car. The door gets shut and she slaps the roof to tell the driver to go. Steve feels the car shift into drive and then they’re off through the misty streets of Westchester, NY. It’s a few seconds of silence before the car’s radio comes on, and it’s Marvin Gaye’s _Trouble Man_. That’s how Steve knows to call out, “All right Wilson, cut the crap,” before the partition even gets rolled down. Sam is, of course, waiting on the other side, chauffer cap and all. “Nice hat,” Steve tells him. “You look just like a cop pretending to be some guy’s driver.”

“Hey man shut up.” Sam is laughing. His scent is easy, not nervous at all. “I’ve got to look the part,” he says.

“Hmph.”

Sam eyes him in the rear-view mirror. “Mr. fancy pants,” he says in reference to what Steve’s been given to wear. “Didn’t think you were the only one who got to play dress up tonight, did you?”

Steve shrugs, attention already on the scenery passing by outside the window. “Not really concerned about what I’m wearing Sam. I just want this to go according to plan.” Sam is uncharacteristically quiet from the front seat. “What?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Just… I can smell the anxiety coming off of you, okay? And if I can then a bunch of criminals can too.”

Steve frowns. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t bullshit man.” Sam flicks his blinker on, takes a turn onto another road. “You’re nervous. And I get why. But you’ve got to calm down before you go in there. You’re supposed to be an old hand at this right?”

Steve nods, staring at his lap. _An old hand. Yeah. _He wonders if Sam is referring to Dr. Steven Grant or to Police Sergeant Steve G. Rogers. Both feel like covers right now. Aliases. As Steve’s mind flashes over the details of his identity again: Dr. Steven Grant, cardiologist and rich guy supreme, closet omegaphile, he says, “Yeah,” as much to himself as to Sam. “Yeah I’m a pro.”__

__Sam nods in his seat at the front, pulling off the main road and into a gravel drive. “Don’t talk more than you have to. Just be confident. You know the drill.” Steve does, but that doesn’t mean that this is going to be easy. It doesn’t mean it isn’t going to be fucked up; something that tugs at his heartstrings and pulls at his gut and gives him bad dreams for weeks afterwards. Undercover work never gets any easier, no matter how many times he does it. Knowing the details of this case, a case which he’s worked tirelessly on since his return to the force, Steve fully expects to be upset by what he encounters in the next half hour. They are busting a black market omega trafficking ring, after all. “Trust your gut,” Sam tells him in way of a final piece of advice as Steve is stepping out of the car._ _

__“Yeah,” Steve mumbles, eyeing the factory up ahead and feeling it down to his bones how he can’t possibly be ready for this. “Trust my gut.”_ _

_The last time he’d trusted his gut, the world had fallen to pieces_

__-oOo-_ _

__There’s security outside of the plant, as is to be expected. Four alphas who are all bigger than Steve himself, which is saying something. Steve can tell that they all have military training just by the way that they stand. He greets them with an aloof nod as they size him up at the door. “Gentlemen,” he says, waits for what they’ll demand of him._ _

__“You lost?” one of them, a man with a distinctive scar across his chin, asks. He’s spoken first, so he’s in charge._ _

__“No.” Steve makes a point of reaching quickly for the wallet in his back pocket, tries to look shocked when the abrupt movement causes two of the men to draw their weapons on him. “Whoa!” Steve widens his eyes comically. “I’m just getting my wallet fellas. Here.” He shows them, pulls out the fake driver’s license inside. A quick glance as he’s handing it over tells Steve that he apparently resides at Central Park and Fifth. Nice._ _

__ChinScar isn’t polite in snatching it from Steve’s hands, but Steve doesn’t really expect him to be. “Let’s see here,” he says. “Dr. Grant.” He looks up, expression marginally less hostile. “Well. We’ve been expecting you.” Steve nods, tries to look disdainful. The guns get lowered. The card is handed back with a modicum of careful respect, and Steve figures that this man has been informed not to piss off one of their biggest potential buyers. “Welcome,” he says. “I’m Rollins.”_ _

__“Of course you are.”_ _

__“How are you planning to transport?” Rollins asks. “If you wind up purchasing, that is.”_ _

__“I have my man.” Steve indicates the car that Sam is idling in at the back of the drive. “And tranquilizers.”_ _

__Rollins nods, leans forward a little as he advises, “I hope you have a secure holding place. They can often be… combative for the first few weeks.” He chuckles darkly, as if they’re all buddies and Steve is supposed to find this amusing._ _

__Steve offers a wan smile. “We’re not without experience in these matters. I’m sure we’ll manage.”_ _

__Perhaps Rolins gets that Dr. Steven Grant wants to get down to business, or perhaps he’s just a very efficient merc. Either way, he motions to his men to open the doors that lead into the building. “Everyone’s gathered below,” he informs. “Follow me this way.” They pass through dust and defunct machinery. The ground level of the old canning plant has been left untouched. Any passing vagrant or vandal wouldn’t take a second look at it. But Rollins and the men take Steve down a set of stairs and through several more locked doors, the final one having been retrofitted sometime within the last ten years, if the technology that it employs is anything to go by. Rollins has Steve stand with the other three men as he scans his retinal and fingerprint data into the security system. After a long moment, deep clicks can be heard within the wall, metal moving inside of concrete, and then the shiny steel door slides open. For all of his experience with operations like this, Steve is a little impressed. It’s as if they’re entering a Swiss bank vault. “Our holding area,” Rollins announces blithely as they all enter, as if what comes into view isn’t any more interesting than the primate house at the Central Park Zoo. Steve grits his teeth, before remembering to loosen the fuck up and at least _try_ to look enthused. He imagines a kid on Christmas morning for inspiration, but is sure he falls at least a little bit flat._ _

__There are six small cells along one side of the room. Clean, simple, all of the walls concrete except for the one wall that faces out. That one’s plexi and lexan, and by the look of it probably bullet-proof. Barring death, the people inside the cells don’t have any chance of escaping. Steve looks them over, assessing to see if anyone appears critically injured or ill—he’s been instructed to purchase the most vulnerable captive if possible._ _

__But all six individuals appear to be unharmed. More than that, they seem relatively healthy and well-kept. There are two men and four women, each with their own cell. They’re all sitting on thin bedrolls that’ve been provided, hands resting in their laps and legs folded Indian style, as if they’ve been told to do so. Nobody’s asleep, all of them looking at the group of men that has entered. Maybe they know what’s going on, that they’re all about to be sold to the highest bidder. Maybe not. Either way, Steve finds their calm demeanor eerie. He wonders if that means they’ve been drugged. He asks, “They seem pretty calm. Is whatever you gave them going to cause an overdose when I tranq?”_ _

__Rollins laughs as if what Steve has said is funny. “Oh they’re not drugged, Doctor. Simply well-behaved.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “We employ a behavioral specialist,” Rollins explains. “A psychologist named Dr. Zola. Know of him?”_ _

__Steve rolls his eyes in a way that he imagines a snooty cardiologist would. “I’m a heart surgeon Mr. Rollins. My field doesn’t have much intersect with the soft sciences.”_ _

__“Yes well, he works with them until they’re tame enough for sale.”_ _

___Tame_. Steve wants to sneer at the word. “I thought you said they could be unruly?” _ _

__Rollins shrugs. “Anyone in their situation would be, but they know fighting isn’t going to gain them anything here. They’ll sit still and pretty for now, but once custody is transferred they usually act up. That’s your problem.”_ _

__The way Rollins talks about these people is disconcerting, but Steve pushes that down, tries to treat the other man’s words as just more information to squirrel away. He inventories the occupant of each cell. They’ve been dressed in what Steve suspects their handlers find to be the most flattering outfits for their body types. Most omegas are small and soft, but the two males and one of the women are larger than average. There’s a pale wisp of a girl who stands out. She has prominent collar bones and a complexion that looks like it doesn’t take kindly to the sun even when she _is_ exposed to it. Steve pegs her as a candidate for his purchase. “They’re well-fed?” he asks. “I don’t want to worry about health issues in something I’m paying so much money for.” _ _

__Rollins opens his mouth to answer, but is cut off by a more cultured voice saying, “No no, of course you don’t.” Steve looks over, not having heard anyone approach and a little pissed at himself for it. “Dr. Grant,” the newcomer says, holding out his hand for Steve to shake. Steve takes it, not failing to notice the Rolex that peeks out from the man’s very well-tailored suit sleeve. “It’s nice to see you again. I’ll be running the sale tonight,” he says amicably._ _

__“I didn’t know,” Steve says. He tries to act glad—how an alpha elitist would act if he’d found a man of his own social status in charge. Sitwell has been his contact for the past two months, and Steve can’t wait to send him to prison._ _

__“So pleased you decided to attend,” Sitwell says. He gestures to the wall of cells that holds the omegas. “Our inventory for this evening. Like I was saying, they’re well-fed. We take great care to ensure that they’re healthy. No outstanding medical issues.” He chuckles good-naturedly. “We even do a full dental before auction. What you’re spending your money on tonight is prime stock. I can promise you that. No hidden surprises.”_ _

__Steve wants to retort that he might have one for Sitwell, but manages to hold the remark back. No one that he encounters tonight is going to be the sort of person that he’d want to share a beer with, he’d come into the mission knowing that. Still, hearing people like Rollins and Sitwell talk reminds Steve of the levels of despicable that human beings can reach. “What about that one?” Steve asks, gesturing to the second male in the row of cells. He’s built like a beta or an alpha, with long hair that’s been brushed back into a bun. The point of interest isn’t his hair though. It’s not even the pleasant set to his face. Rather it’s his arm, or lack thereof. The man’s left arm ends in a metallic stump just after the shoulder. It’s blatantly obvious because nobody’s bothered to cover it up. In fact, Steve would almost say it’s being showcased. The man’s been dressed in a black tank top and jeans, feet left bare, and his non-arm just sits there, drawing the eye. “That your work?” Steve asks, very, very morbidly curious. Surely even people like these wouldn’t…_ _

__“No of course not.” Sitwell makes a face as if he doesn’t care for the sight of the omega’s missing arm. “He arrived that way. We typically wouldn’t have marked him for such high bidding but he’s got a pretty face, and there are always amputee fetishists out there.” Sitwell gives a sick little smile. “We’ve actually got one here tonight.”_ _

__“Oh?”_ _

__“Yes.” Sitwell shakes his head, looks at the omega with something bordering on regret. “It’s a shame. He really would be good-looking if you could get past the arm. Won’t be after tonight though.”_ _

__Steve feels his guts clench—that feeling you get when you’re on the verge of understanding something that you _really_ don’t want to understand. “What?” he forces himself to ask. “Why not?”_ _

__“Well I know it’s not your thing but I’m sure you can imagine,” Sitwell tells him. “This woman who wants him; I’m told she’s pretty fucked up.”_ _

__“…How so?”_ _

__Sitwell gives him a _look_. “He’s still got three good limbs to lose, doesn’t he?”_ _

__“What?” Steve can’t think that Sitwell means… he can’t possibly mean…_ _

__“That’s what she said when she called to inquire.” Sitwell shrugs. “But he’ll still be an omega to fuck afterwards. Easy to contain too so… Different strokes for different folks I guess.”_ _

__Steve feels like he could vomit if he got even a weak whiff of something putrid. Logically he knows that this man is telling him that there is a person eager to pay good money to hack off a man’s remaining three limbs, but something in his mind just cannot work its way around that. It’s too wrong, too horrible. Steve was prepared for many things this evening, but not that. He feels like that time he watched _The Exorcist_ after his mother warned him not to._ _

__“Come on,” Sitwell is saying, gesturing for Steve to follow. “We’ve got drinks and refreshments over here.”_ _

__The thought of noshing on mini quiches and champagne has Steve halfway between laughing and retching, but he follows Sitwell into the next room anyways. He’s definitely decided on who he’s “buying” this evening._ _

__-oOo-_ _

__They’ve got the place decorated like it’s some reception room at the Hilton. There’s food, and booze, and background music. There are exactly sixteen other people milling about, all of them alphas and all of them ostensibly buyers. Steve takes comfort in the fact that they look like they’re cut from the same cloth as his alter ego. At least _Dr. Steven Grant_ has come dressed right for the occasion. He makes himself a small plate of the proffered hors d’oeuvres, but knows he won’t be able to choke any of it down. There’s a sour feeling in his stomach that isn’t going to go away until they’ve extracted the victims and arrested all of these motherfuckers. Maybe then he’ll eat. Cocktail tables with navy blue runners and gold tea lights are placed throughout the room for the buyers to gather at, more navy and gold reflected in the little paper pamphlets that profile the available omegas. Steve is amazed that Sitwell and his group felt that this event warranted a color scheme. Sarcastically, he wonders if there’ll be party favors afterwards. _ _

__He opens the packet, begins to read about the first omega— _victim_ , his mind corrects—and sees that the waif-like girl in the holding cell is apparently named Darcy. She’s 18 ( _so young_ , Steve mourns). Too fucking young. They’ve managed to sum up Darcy’s entire personhood in a single paragraph, pointing out that she’s educated, fertile, and sarcastic. The picture they have of her looks like it’s a few years old, maybe taken from a yearbook. She used to have a healthier weight to her, from the looks of it. She’s smiling in the picture. Steve doesn’t get far past reading that, because one of the other buyers comes up to his table and introduces herself. “She’s pretty,” the woman—who has red hair and a calm face—says, remarking on Darcy the waif. _ _

__Steve immediately shuts the pamphlet. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Yeah I might bid.”_ _

__The woman smiles, holds out a hand. “Natalie,” she tells him. “Natalie Rushman.” She has a deep, smooth voice, like chocolate and cigarettes._ _

__“Nice to meet you,” Steve says, even though it’s definitely _not_. “Anyone in-particular you’re interested in?” _ _

__Natalie laughs pleasantly. “Don’t worry Dr. Grant. I’m not interested in her if that’s what you’re worried about.” She sips casually at her drink—something pink and bubbly._ _

__Steve can’t suppress his frown. “How do you know my name?”_ _

__She smiles around her straw, draws it through her lips in a way that Steve finds very attractive and very practiced. “I always make it a point to familiarize myself with the competition.”_ _

__“Ah. I see.”_ _

__“But if it’s her you want, then we shouldn’t have much of an issue.” She smirks. “I’m here for someone special.” When Steve raises his eyebrows to ask, Natalie unfolds Steve’s pamphlet and points to the last person listed. “Him.”_ _

__Steve feels his stomach drop. She’s pointing to one of the two male omegas from the holding cells. The one with the missing arm. Steve looks up at her, then looks back around at the room of assembled buyers. Natalie is the only woman present. Steve swallows, knows that she has to be the woman that Sitwell told him about. “He’s missing an arm,” Steve points out blandly. “The picture doesn’t show that.” The picture they’ve got of the guy— _James_ , it says his name is—is one they’ve taken of him since his captivity. It only shows him from the neck up. He’s not smiling._ _

__“Oh, I’m aware,” Natalie is saying, unaffected. “I’m into that.”_ _

__“Right.”_ _

__Natalie sips at her drink some more, looks at Steve in a deeply considering way that he finds disconcerting. “You’re a doctor, right?” she asks._ _

__Steve wasn’t expecting that. He blinks. “Uh, yeah. Yes. I’m a heart surgeon.” He’s not certain that these people are the type to share personal details, but Natalie seems to be the sort to leave no stone unturned._ _

__“So you would have access to medical equipment. Anesthesia and stuff?” She blinks up at him with utterly interested eyes. “Would you be willing to sell?”_ _

__Ew. Steve hopes he manages not to let his displeasure show on his face. He takes the pamphlet back and resumes reading through it in order to give himself something to do. Now that he’s met this psychopath of a woman he knows that he has to pick James as his purchase. He can’t risk Natalie getting her hands on him during the skirmish that is certain to happen when the strike team enters the building. “Ah, I’d have to look at it,” he evades. “They inventory most stuff you know. Can’t risk losing my license.”_ _

__“Of course.” Natalie seems to understand that Steve wants her to back off, because she does. She moves on to the next table, apparently scoping out her other competition. Steve is glad to see her go, and finds himself wishing he could call Hill on his little cell phone and tell her to make sure they nab the “bitch with the red hair.”_ _

__Unfortunately there isn’t time for any such phone call, because Sitwell has reappeared in the room and he’s standing up on a little dais, Rollins and the other security at his back. “Gentlemen,” he pauses, nods politely at Natalie. “Lady. I hope you’ve all gotten a little something to eat, had a drink and looked over the profiles highlighted in the pamphlets.” Several of the assembled alphas murmur in pleased agreement, holding up their glasses good-naturedly or stuffing another appetizer in their mouth. There’s one man over by the door who can’t seem to stop sucking the escargots out of their shells. It’s a little gross. “The stock we have on hand for you to view today is the best of what we offer, which makes you our premium buyers. I cannot thank you enough for attending this evening.” Steve wants to gag all over again at the man’s formality. It has such a practiced air to it that it makes Steve’s skin crawl to think how long the operation has been going on, how many people they’ve kidnapped and sold over the years. How many lives they’ve ruined. Sitwell is still talking from his spot up ahead. “Now if you’ll all follow me, we’ll move into the next room, where you’ll have the opportunity to meet privately with any omegas you might be interesting on bidding on.”_ _

__Steve is surprised, has to will his feet to move as all of the other buyers immediately begin following Sitwell through another set of doors into the next room. Steve trails after them, feeling flummoxed. He hadn’t expected to be allowed time alone with any of the captives, had figured that the handlers wouldn’t allow such a thing until money had changed hands. The room they enter is larger even than the previous two. It has cells similar to the ones that Steve had seen upon entry, but these ones lack the clear outer wall. Instead, they are merely fitted with small windows in the doors that lead into the rooms, and even these have curtains that can be drawn for privacy. Steve wonders what the proprietors imagine they’ll need privacy for._ _

__“Some of you are familiar with the bidding process but I’ll cover it now for our newcomers,” Sitwell announces. To the side, Steve notices that Natalie looks unimpressed. “Now as you well know, you are being offered the best. As such we expect our buyers to have an idea of what they want. This is not a free for all. We are not animals.” Steve raises an eyebrow as he hears this, he can’t help it. “You will each have the opportunity to enjoy a few moments of private conversation with your prospective purchases. You may only, however, choose two omegas with which to do this. When your time is up and we have all reconvened, we’ll open the bidding for each omega, one at a time. If you do purchase, you will be required to submit your information to Mr. Rollins here.” He gestures briefly over to said man, who is standing patiently by the door through which they all entered. “And,”—it’s here that Sitwell’s expression grows serious—“no omega leaves the building until your transfer of funds has been confirmed.” He smiles amicably again, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “So, now that we’re all clear on procedure, please submit your two picks to me as soon as you have them.”_ _

__One of the unnamed guards comes around to them all, handing out cards and small pencils—like the ones you get to keep score with at mini golf. Steve glances down at his card; it has the names of the six omegas that are up for sale listed in bold, black print: Darcy, Sarah, Fiona, Katie, Henry, James. No last names are acknowledged._ _

__Steve remembers how he ate at this sushi restaurant once. He recalls how there’d been a menu that listed off all of the different types of rolls you could get, and how there were little boxes where you could check off the ones you wanted to order. That’s what this feels like, he thinks as he circles James’ name and Darcy’s as well; like he’s ordering sushi._ _

__Everyone hands their cards over and Sitwell disappears for a few moments, ostensibly to tally up the requests. By the time he returns, the other alphas are pacing in place, eager to get into the cells. Steve can’t know for sure, but he makes an educated guess that James hasn’t received the most requests, given his disability. Steve is hopeful he’ll be able to get in, speak to the guy, outbid the redhead for him, and hightail it out of there before the strike team moves in._ _

__Sitwell returns. “Miss Rushman,” he says. “I’ll have you over here to see James.” Natalie smiles politely and heads over to the room that’s been indicated, wasting no time in entering once Sitwell has keyed in the security code. She yanks the curtain closed from within and Steve has to swallow down his trepidation at not being able to see what’s going on inside. No harm will likely come to the omega in only a few moments’ time. Not before he’s been bought. Steve doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at the curtained door for too long until he hears himself being called. “…Dr. Grant?”_ _

__Steve whips his head to the side. “Yes?”_ _

__“I said: Darcy is just through here.” Sitwell reaches to open one of the other rooms for Steve, and Steve steps through._ _

__As soon as the door is shut there is a silence so thick that Steve knows the room has to be soundproofed. It smells like omega in the room, but there’s an edge to the smell—fear and not enough sleep, not enough food. Steve looks at the thin girl who has herself seated on the bare floor in the corner. She appears to be in some sort of… meditative pose. Steve frowns. “Are you meditating?”_ _

__Darcy opens her eyes, doesn’t break her pose. “Yes.”_ _

__Steve nods. “Okay.” When Darcy just continues to stare at him, Steve dares to take a step closer. Darcy doesn’t flinch but the fear in her scent spikes, and Steve wonders what she expects to happen to her tonight. “I used to do vinyasa yoga,” he offers._ _

__“Far out,” she deadpans._ _

__Steve can’t help it, he raises an eyebrow. “How are you?” he asks. “Have they been treating you alright? Feeding you enough?” (They clearly haven’t—the girl is far too thin)._ _

__Darcy snorts. “Yeah it’s great. A regular five star resort.”_ _

__Steve remembers how the pamphlet had said Darcy was sarcastic. He nods. “I’m Steve,” he offers._ _

__“Darcy. But I’m guessing they told you that.”_ _

__Steve glances back to the door behind them, walks back there to yank the curtain closed. “I need you to remain calm and not say or do anything rash in response to what I’m about to tell you,” Steve says. For the first time, Darcy looks nervous. “My name is Steve Rogers and I’m a police officer. I’m undercover as a Dr. Steven Grant, a buyer.”_ _

__Darcy frowns, appears to be thinking. “So you’re gonna buy me?”_ _

__“My unit is conducting a raid on this operation tonight. We’ll be getting you and everyone else out of here,” Steve tells her._ _

__“So you’re not buying me?”_ _

__Steve shakes his head. “I’ve been instructed to walk out with the most vulnerable omega here. It’s not you.”_ _

__Darcy’s reaction is not what Steve had expected. She smiles wide and says, “Hey, I’m not the weakest. Cool.”_ _

__“It’s not about that,” Steve says, refrains from going into further detail. “Look: I need you to act as you normally would for the remainder of the night. Don’t draw attention to yourself and don’t piss anyone off. When the officers come in try to get yourself away from any of the alphas that’ve been keeping you. Try to find an exit or get to an officer.”_ _

__“Is this gonna be a shitshow or something?” Darcy wants to know._ _

__“No.” Steve hopes not. “We’ve got plenty of backup. You’ll see me leave with one of the other omegas. You may be purchased by someone too. But they won’t have a chance to take you away, okay? So don’t panic.”_ _

__Darcy looks worried. “Are you sure?” she asks. “That they won’t get me?”_ _

__Steve wants to tell her yes, so he does. It’s best to keep her calm. But in all honesty, it’s a promise he’s not sure he can make. A knock comes at the door to the room, signaling that Steve’s time is up. Looking back at Darcy, he asks, “Are you going to be okay?”_ _

__She nods her head, but still looks scared. Still smells scared. “Yeah. Um, thanks for saving us. I guess.” Steve smiles, can’t bring himself to say ‘you’re welcome’ yet. He leaves the room. There’s another alpha waiting outside the door for his turn to see Darcy, and Steve is shuttled along to his other choice: James._ _

__Once he’s inside the room, Steve immediately reaches back to draw the curtain shut. James is seated by one of the walls, back resting up against the concrete. He looks at Steve and says, “Hi,” when he enters. If he’s at all upset by whatever occurred when Natalie was in the room with him, he doesn’t show it. Steve doesn’t smell any fear tingeing the omega’s natural scent like he had with Darcy. This omega smells good; like pancake syrup. Steve thinks that he must be close to heat._ _

__“Hello,” Steve says. He walks over and seats himself in front of James, trying to make himself seem smaller and less intimidating. It’s not that James is small. Far from it actually. The guy is nearly Steve’s size. A bit leaner perhaps, but still large for an omega. “I’m Steve.”_ _

__“James,” James offers, eyes scanning up and down Steve’s body. His tone is polite enough—he has a nice voice—but Steve can tell when he’s being sized up. “So you want to buy me?”_ _

__“I intend to, yes,” Steve says. He prepares for the same spiel he’d given Darcy. “Look: I’m going to tell you something but I need for you to remain calm and not react in any way that’s going to draw attention to us.”_ _

__James frowns but says nothing. Eventually he gives Steve a small nod. “Alright,” he says. “…Unless you hurt me,” he warns as an afterthought._ _

__“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a police officer.”_ _

__James’ eyes widen, then they narrow to slits. “Yeah? What precinct?” he spits out, surprising Steve with the question and how fast he thought to ask it._ _

__“Uh… Manhattan SVU.”_ _

__“…Fuck.”_ _

__Now it’s Steve’s turn to frown. “Don’t worry. I’m undercover. We’re conducting a raid on this place. Tonight. I’ll be bidding on you and the two of us will be off the premises when my team moves in. You’re going to be safe.”_ _

__James just stares at him. He shakes his head and huffs. “Shit. No. Nonono this is not happening.” His hand comes up to rake through his hair in distress. “Oh man this is fucked!” He tosses his head back, thunking it against the wall. “Think Barnes, think.”_ _

__“Excuse me?” Steve is so very confused at the response he’s getting from this omega. Shouldn’t the guy be relieved? Relieved he’s being rescued from this hell hole? Steve watches James where he’s sitting, seeing how agitated he’s just become. That’s not good. A panicking omega certainly won’t help Steve to complete his mission. Steve acts, reaching out and cupping his hand behind the man’s neck, where he applies steady pressure with his grip. He makes a shushing sound, then says in his Voice, “I need for you to stay calm, okay James? You’re going to be good for me and stay calm now so that we don’t get caught.”_ _

__James jerks away like he’s been physically slapped. It forces Steve to remove his hand and James glares at him. “Don’t do that,” he bites out. “It doesn’t work on me anyway.”_ _

__Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”_ _

__“Yes. I’m a federal agent. I’ve had resistance training.”_ _

__Steve feels his pulse speed up. “You’re a FED?”_ _

__James nods. “FBI. I’ve been deep under for almost three months.”_ _

__Steve is flabbergasted. _Three months?_ In this place? “So… no outside contact?” he manages to stutter out after a long moment. “Isn’t that risky with an operation like this?” _ _

__James shrugs. “I volunteered.”_ _

__Steve bites back anything he might have to say about a disabled omega agent being placed in such a compromising situation. They don’t have the time. “I’ll be buying you tonight. You’ll come with me and then my team will make their bust. I can help you get in contact with your field office after.” He makes to stand but James stops him, pulling him back down to the floor with his one arm. He’s surprisingly strong._ _

__“Whoa whoa whoa. Hold on. That is not what’s happening.” James’ voice is firm. “Now you listen and you listen good. What you’re seeing here tonight is not the whole operation. Far from it. This is just one cell. There are deeper levels to this. You can’t blow my cover. You’re going to have to contact your captain and have him tell everyone to stand down.”_ _

__Steve snorts. “No way! We’ve got four months on this and I’m not about to let a bunch of FEDs on a fishing expedition screw that up.” Steve points his finger towards the door. “There are over a dozen people out there who are guilty of or complicit in human trafficking. I am NOT walking away from that.”_ _

__“Think again,” James tells him. “You WILL walk away from it.”_ _

__“You can’t give me orders.”_ _

__“You think I can’t?” James says cockily. “FBI has jurisdiction here. We’ve had an investigation going on Hydra for over a year and we’re gunning for the leader of the whole operation. We are not giving that up so that you and your buddies can score a few low-level collars.”_ _

__Steve grits his teeth. “Low level?!”_ _

__“Please detective,” James rolls his eyes. “Don’t get all defensive or territorial on me.”_ _

__“It’s Sergeant,” Steve growls._ _

__“Sergeant then. Do you have a way to contact your men from inside?”_ _

__“I do. But I’m not going to—”_ _

__“YES, you are.” James stares him down in a manner that Steve is not used to encountering in an omega. “WE have jurisdiction here. If you value your career on the force at all, you will leave this room and contact your men and tell them to stand down. Tell them to have your captain call Supervisory Special Agent Rumlow at the New York field office.”_ _

__“And who the hell is that?”_ _

__James’ eyes soften somehow. “My… coworker. He’s my coworker. Brock Rumlow. He can fill your captain in on anything he needs to know.”  
Steve scowls, frustrated to hell and back because he knows that James is right—he _does_ have the authority over Steve in this. “This is bullshit!” he says as he pushes off roughly from the floor, this time going unstopped by James. _ _

__“One more thing Sergeant ,” James calls after him. “The redheaded woman out there?”_ _

__Steve pauses. “Yeah what about her?” He wonders if she’d told James anything about how she plans to hack off his remaining limbs for fun._ _

__“She’s also an agent, here for a progress report from me. You WILL maintain her cover as well.”_ _

__Steve looks back at James, bristling at being ordered about by the omega. “Well isn’t that nice,” he snarks, because he’s pissed that this is happening, that his case is getting fucked all to hell because of one, bossy omega FBI agent. “You can stop giving me orders, Mr…?”_ _

__James tells him, “It’s _Agent_. And it’s Barnes. Bucky Barnes.”_ _

__Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. He reaches for the handle to the door, and as a last thought he tells Bucky, “I’ll make a call. Stay here.”_ _

__As if he has any other choice._ _

__-oOo-_ _

__Steve manages to sneak away for long enough to get a call through to Clint, who patches him through to Fury’s direct line. They speak hurriedly, and Nick gives Steve orders to follow through with his assignment as planned. He’s going to liaison with the FBI and find out if their bust is well and truly fucked. He tells Steve to expect a text in the next half hour._ _

__Steve makes sure to turn the cell they’ve given him to vibrate._ _

__There are still a few buyers in the rooms with the omegas. Steve stands, impatient and feeling useless, as he makes an effort to avoid conversation with any of the other alphas. Natalie still manages to wind her way over though, and Steve finds himself biting back the urge to greet her by what he now knows is her title. “Ms. _Rushman_ ,” Steve says. “I just spoke with your colleague.” Natalie gives him a confused look, and Steve moves to stand closer to her so that he can whisper, “I’m Manhattan SVU. Nobody told us the FEDS were working this.”_ _

__To her credit, Natalie schools her expression quickly. Much quicker than Bucky had. “I trust my _colleague_ explained to you that we take point on this. Whatever you’re doing here, it’s over.”_ _

__Steve shakes his head minutely, scoffs through a smile. “You guys at the bureau. Always sticking your noses where they’re not wanted.”_ _

__“Where they’re _warranted_ ,” Natalie asserts. “You have contact with your team?”_ _

__Steve nods, albeit reluctantly. “I’m waiting on my captain,” he tells her. “I take orders from him, not you.”_ _

__Natalie seems to take this in stride. She stands back. “Good. I’m sure he’ll make the right call.”_ _

__Steve isn’t so sure that the two of them agree what “the right call” is here. “I’m bidding on him,” he tells her, referring to Bucky. “I’m buying him and walking out of here with him tonight regardless.”  
To Steve’s surprise, Natalie doesn’t flip out. In fact, she nods. “That wouldn't be the worst case scenario.”_ _

__“You mean you don’t have a problem with that?”_ _

__She shrugs. “It’ll keep him from being bought up by one of the actual psychopaths in there. Plus, that frees me up to get one of the others out. But," she fixes him with a stare that's as intimidating as it is hollow, "don't place a bid on him unless someone else seems seriously interested. We need him in here to collect more intel if at all possible."_ _

__Steve frowns. He can tell Natalie is still operating under the assumption that there will be no raid tonight, that the investigation will continue. And apparently she expects Steve to just go along with it. “First of all,” he tells her. “If my boss says so, we’re raiding this place tonight. Second, I’m a New York City police officer. I’m not on loan to the FBI. Even if we did bow out, my boss isn’t going to let you use me on your investigation.”_ _

__Natalie smirks. “Why? You too valuable?”_ _

__“Not valuable enough,” Steve replies before he can think about it. He can see that Natalie notices, and chides himself for speaking without thinking. “Never mind. Looks like things are wrapping up anyway.”_ _

__The guards are pulling the last of the buyers from the rooms and locking the doors back up. They’re all ushered back through to the room with the hors d’oeuvres, and Sitwell stands up by the dais again. Steve is surprised but also sort of relieved when it becomes apparent that none of the omegas will be dragged out into the room for this. It makes it somehow less appalling (not enough though). “We’ll follow the order of the pamphlet profiles,” Sitwell tells them. “So we begin with Darcy.”_ _

__More than a few leaflets go up in the air. Belatedly, Steve remembers to raise his own hand. He’s supposed to be interested in her, after all. When Sitwell starts the bidding out at “twenty thousand,” no hands go down. Steve swallows and forces himself to keep his hand up until the bids reach fifty thousand, then he bows out. Darcy winds up sold to Natalie for a grand total of eighty thousand dollars, and Steve is equal parts relieved and disgusted with the whole affair. He glances over at Natalie and she catches him, winking at the last second. At least the girl is in safe hands, Steve reassures himself. All the better. If he winds up getting a call from Fury telling him to give point to the FEDs, then none of the other hostages might be getting out of here at all. The next three girls all go for over sixty thousand, and then the first male sets off a bidding war between three of the alphas. Steve watches, part fascinated and part sick, as the man’s worth is driven up and up, until it tops off at $90,000. He’s been bought by the man who fancies escargot._ _

__James is last. It’s sad, but only Steve and one other alpha wind up bidding on him. Steve supposes this is due to the missing arm. He doesn’t let himself worry if the lack of interest does any damage to Agent Barnes’ self-esteem, however. He’s too busy being concerned when he can’t seem to outbid the other alpha holding interest. The man is maybe fifty years old, has a moustache, and is seemingly very determined to win “James” for his own. He’s looking at Steve with undisguised annoyance each time Steve ups his bid. He holds his hand up again and this time he raises his bid by nearly twenty thousand, calling out, “Seventy-five,” with a tone of finality. Steve supposes the man thinks he’s won. Well he’s bound to be disappointed. Steve’s the only one present with a fake bank account with equally fictitious depths. Steve raises his hand and calls out,_ _

__“Eighty five.”_ _

__When Mr. Moustache grunts and doesn’t bother raising his hand again, Steve is proclaimed the winner. Now everyone’s been bought, and Sitwell congratulates the six alphas who’ve wound up purchasing. Steve is ushered along with the other five, and they wind up in another room, where one of the mercs from upstairs is sitting behind a desk. “Mr. Hardy will take your account details,” Sitwell tells them. “Once payment is confirmed you’ll be free to take your omegas and leave.”_ _

__Steve is still waiting on word from Fury, so he positions himself at the back of the line. As the other alphas hand over their money, Steve pulls his phone out and checks it. No texts have come through. Steve wishes someone would just talk into his ear already. That’s half the point of the wire, after all. In front of him, Agent Rushman has made eye contact like she wants to chat. “Congratulations on your acquisition,” She tells him conversationally, though she keeps her voice low._ _

__Steve tries to approximate a friendly smile, as the woman isn’t supposed to be competition anymore—at least not to Dr. Steven Grant, that is. “You too,” he says. He nods up ahead to where Mr. Hardy is taking down account numbers and typing them into a laptop. “How high were you prepared to go?” he asks._ _

__“As high as it took,” she tells him with a smirk. “What, were you working under a budget?”_ _

__Steve has to fight not to show his annoyance at the obvious dig towards his branch of law enforcement. He returns her snide smile and says, “My pockets go deeper than you might think, Miss Rushman.”_ _

__“Hmm.” If she’s planning on saying more, it doesn’t happen, as she’s called forward next to give her information._ _

__When it’s his turn, Steve walks up and pulls out his wallet. He gets the blank business card on which his fake account number has been printed, and hands it over to Mr. Hardy. The man types it into the computer and even though Steve knows that the number is good, he can’t help but to be nervous. After a long moment Steve gets a nod that his supposed funds have transferred, and he is directed through the door leading back to the holding rooms. The Rollins guy and Bucky are the only ones there. Bucky's hand is cuffed to the wall, and Rollins looks bored. Steve glances around suspiciously. “They’ve all been taken?” he asks, feeling unease creep into his gut._ _

__“People don’t tend to stick around,” Rollins tells him blandly._ _

__Steve swallows and nods. “Oh.” He looks over at Bucky. Steve has to give the guy credit; he’s managed a better imitation of “terrified human trafficking victim” than Steve thinks he himself could ever pull off._ _

__Rollins steps over into Bucky’s personal space and unlocks the handcuff. His grip on “James’” upper arm doesn’t look gentle as he steers him over. “He ain’t exactly small. You have those tranqs you were talking about?” he asks, eyeing Steve up and down._ _

__“Yes,” Steve says. “Here.” He pulls the syringe he’s brought out of his pocket and steps forward. Agent Barnes gives him a _WHAT THE FUCK_ look as Steve brings the needle close and jabs it into his bicep. It’s as Rollins is chuckling that Steve says, “It won’t knock him out, but he won’t be running anywhere any time soon.” The syringe holds nothing but a saline solution, but Steve doesn’t need the guy thinking he has to pretend to pass out or anything. Bucky’s features relax minutely, but Steve is sure he’s the only one who notices. _ _

__Rollins nods in understanding and releases his hold. “Have fun,” he says._ _

__Steve nods, takes Bucky by the arm and steers him toward the door. “Thanks.”_ _

__Neither of them say anything until they’re outside again. Several of the alphas from the auction are smoking cigarettes by the door and Steve practically drags Agent Barnes over to the idling town car. The second the door is shut he’s talking to Sam. “Well?”_ _

__“What’d you inject me with?”_ _

__Sam’s already put the car into gear and starts driving away. “It’s fucked,” he says, pulling from the gravel drive out onto the main road. “We’re regrouping at the station.”_ _

__“What?” Steve all but climbs into the front seat. “Fury okayed this?”_ _

__“WHAT did you inject me with?”_ _

__“Yup.” Sam doesn’t sound any more pleased than Steve. He glares at Agent Barnes through the rearview mirror. “The FEDs ordered us to back off.”_ _

__Steve slams his hand into the front passenger’s headrest. “Goddamn it!” He falls back to sitting in the backseat, giving Bucky a nasty look as he does so. “We could’ve ended this tonight!”_ _

__“What the HELL did you inject me with?!”_ _

__“Nothing. Saline.” Steve scoffs. “You’re fine.” After another moment he adds, “I hope you’re happy.”_ _

__“That’s not the word I would use, but yeah. We let a few of them go for now so we can get more of them later. This goes deeper than you realize Sergeant.”_ _

__“And what about the other four omegas, huh?” Steve hisses. “Are they just collateral damage to you? Is that how the bureau works these days?”_ _

__If Bucky is offended he doesn’t show it. He merely blinks at Steve’s words, telling him calmly that they’ll all be briefed when they reach the station._ _

__Steve can’t fucking _wait_._ _

__-oOo-_ _


	2. Bucky: Reassembly Required

\---oOo---

Bucky sits in his chair and waits patiently while the two techs that Stark has had sent over, work on him. One is crouched on the floor, his head about level with Bucky’s armpit, and the other works from above. Their tools spark and make dangerous-sounding electrical noises. Natasha is across the way from Bucky and she’s put both her feet up onto the conference table that’s been crammed into the small room they’re sitting in. It’s the first time they’ve been alone together since Bucky went under three months ago. She’s watching him in an assessing sort of way, waiting for him to make the first move. 

Bucky succumbs. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“You’re supposed to be retired.” Her words make Bucky wince despite himself. This only seems to incite her more. “You’re an idiot, Barnes. You do know that, right?”

Bucky sighs. “I just got back Nat. Give me two seconds before you—”

“The _least_ you could’ve done was tell me what you were planning before you disappeared!” she erupts, glaring daggers across the table. “I had to learn about it from Coulson.”

Bucky shrugs, feeling guilty but not wanting her to see. “They didn’t give me a choice. Nobody was told until they needed to know.” 

“Not even Brock?” she asks.

Bucky’s eyes snap up, then darken. “Especially not him. He never would have allowed it in the first place.”

Natasha’s eyebrow rises. “‘Allowed’?”

“Exactly.” Bucky watches the techs as they finish up with what they’re doing. The one above him snaps the last panel near his shoulder back into place and steps away. 

“You should be good to go, Sir.”

“Thank you,” Bucky murmurs, still not exactly used to being “worked” on, as it were. The men leave the room and Bucky rotates his shoulder, testing out the arm. “Everything still works,” he reports to Natasha. Then he meets her eyes. “I still work.”

Her lips part as understanding dawns on her, and she levels him with a look that’s equal parts amused and disapproving. “ _That’s_ why you volunteered for this batshit insane mission? To prove him wrong?” 

“You’re damned right.”

“You're really an all-or-nothing sort of guy, aren't you? And I suppose that’s why the,” she gestures vaguely at Bucky’s now-reattached prosthesis, “with Stark and all that?”

Bucky frowns, raising his left hand to examine it. “No,” he says mildly. “I mean, not _entirely_. It’s nice to have two arms again.”

Natasha looks characteristically unimpressed, but she smells calm now at least, anger and fear no longer tinging her scent. She mulls over her next question before asking it. “…So was it worth it?” 

Bucky glances out the little window to his right. It looks down onto the main floor of the SVU precinct, where everyone is either grim or pissed off, now that they’ve been told that the FBI is taking over. Brock is down there, trying to maintain order. He looks overwhelmed and it makes Bucky’s lips twitch a little. “Yeah,” he tells Nat. “Yeah it was.”

-oOo-

The next day, Bucky’s doing paperwork at his desk in the bullpen when Brock stomps over and tells him (and Natasha, who’s at her desk) that Coulson’s on his way down for a “chat.” Brock is testy and doesn’t look happy or prepared for this announcement. Bucky and Natasha share a look and a grimace. Things have been extremely awkward at their office since Bucky returned from his undercover op. Nat's been as supportive as she can, but Brock is still their boss so... Moments later the elevator doors ping open, revealing Phil. He smiles at them and makes his way over, a manila folder and an evidence bag in hand. “Agents,” he greets. Natasha scoots her desk chair back as if to offer it to Phil for their little meeting, but he waves her off politely. “I came down here to tell you that I just got the call from Captain Fury: NYPD has officially closed their investigation on Hydra. It’s all ours from here on out.”

Brock makes some sort of grunt—a noise which Bucky knows means he’s pleased. “Good,” he says.

“Sir, how are we planning to proceed now that Barnes’ identity has been compromised?” Natasha asks. She spares a glance back at Bucky and catches the ugly look that Brock is throwing his way. “…Rumlow?”

“You hear that?” Brock is hissing at Bucky. “ _Compromised_. How could you put yourself in a position like that? Without telling me?” Romanov and Coulson stare, as Brock has apparently veered off into a whole other train of conversation. “What the hell were you thinking, huh?” He brings one of his hands up as if to grab the back of Bucky’s neck. It kind of makes it there too. Brock’s fingers touch the spot where Bucky’s bonding mark is. It’s presumptive and inappropriate and it sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine.

It doesn’t last for long. Before anyone can so much as blink, Bucky’s got Brock kneeling in front of him, facing away from Bucky and towards a very amused Nat, his metal arm twisting Brock’s wrist painfully behind his back. “Don’t. touch. me,” Bucky says, before releasing his hold. Brock gasps and throws himself back to standing. He’s furious but he backs off. Coulson is right there, after all.

“Gentlemen,” Coulson says. “If we could all manage to get along for now?” Bucky is quick to nod his agreement. It takes longer for Brock to pull it together, but he does. “Great. My answer to your question then, Natasha, would be that we proceed as if Barnes’ cover hasn’t been compromised.”

“What?”

Coulson smiles. “Well he wasn’t outed as an agent, was he? As far as Hydra knows, he’s simply been bought by a Dr. Steven Grant.” He nods happily. “So that’s how we’ll proceed. We’ll use Sergeant Rogers’ established alias to gain access into Hydra’s inner circle.” Coulson opens the evidence bag that he’s brought along, reaching in and retrieving a blackberry cell phone from within. He hands the phone to Rumlow, telling him, “Check the messages. There’s one from last night. Put it on speaker.” Brock’s brow is furrowed, but he does as told. The phone’s speaker sounds and it’s Jasper Sitwell’s voice that’s leaving the message, telling Dr. Grant that his purchase is appreciated and that, should he be interested, he is invited to bring his new omega to a party of ‘like-minded individuals’. A number is quickly relayed at which Steve can make further contact. Once the message is finished playing, Coulson takes the phone from Rumlow’s palm and slips it back into the plastic evidence bag. “What little intel we have to go on suggests that it’ll probably be some sort of omegaphile fetish party,” he relays calmly, as if they’re discussing the weather. “Agent Barnes and Sergeant Rogers will go in under this guise and collect more information. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to quickly establish who the leaders are.” 

“You can’t be serious?” Brock says, glancing to Bucky with a worried look. “You want to throw him back in there with those perverts?!”

“What missions I take on are my choice Brock,” Bucky argues. “You don’t get a say on what I do. Not anymore.” 

Brock turns on him. “Well actually I do. I’m still your supervisor, _Agent_.”

“And I’m yours,” Coulson tells him. “And this is how we’re proceeding. Now are you on board, SSA Rumlow? Or are we going to have to have a private discussion?”

Brock doesn’t look happy about it, but he manages a nod. “Sir.”

“Good,” Coulson chirps. “I’ll have Sergeant Rogers informed.”

“Sir?” It’s Bucky who’s spoken, and Coulson looks to him questioningly. “I’m ah, I’m not sure Sergeant Rogers is going to go along with this,” Bucky admits. “He was pretty pissed at having his investigation stopped. And he made several comments to me about not being on the bureau’s payroll…or something like that. I just… I don’t think he’ll cooperate.”

Brock makes a scoffing sound at this—really, it’s an overused sound of his—but Natasha cuts him off by saying, “Yeah, he made similar comments to me. He might not be who you want to approach first with this plan.”

“What would you suggest, Agent?”

She shrugs. “My cover hasn’t been compromised either. Why not send me back in?”

“Believe me I would, but you didn’t buy Barnes; Rogers did. I can’t send you in there with the omega girl you bought.”

“Why not?” Brock blurts, causing both Bucky and Natasha to look at him cross-eyed. “I mean,” he adds, flustering, “We could… train her?”

“Are you insane?” Bucky asks. “She’s an eighteen year old, traumatized civilian.” 

Brock’s countenance darkens, not taking kindly to the criticism. “And a one-armed omega on the verge of heat is a better option?” he spits. When Bucky flinches at the affront, Brock smiles crudely. “Yeah, don’t think we all can’t smell it, _sweetheart_.” 

It takes Bucky a beat to recover, but he does. “Ugh,” he says dismissively, figuring that to be enough of a reply to his douche of an ex-husband. It apparently is, because when Bucky next catches Natasha’s gaze, she looks incredibly proud. “So yeah. How are we going to get him to work with us?” Bucky asks. 

“I did some digging,” Coulson says. “Apparently this Rogers is a lot like you Barnes.”

Bucky knows that he looks confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Coulson drops the manila file folder that he’s been holding onto Bucky’s desk. “He thinks he’s got something to prove.” Bucky’s too busy reaching forward to open the folder to notice his boss turning around and heading for the elevators. He hears him though, when Coulson calls back, saying, “Talk to him, Barnes. Get him to see this our way.”

\---oOo---

Bucky’s in Natasha's apartment--well, technically his too for the time being--and sitting on the couch, absorbed in the folder that Coulson gave him. He’s already been through all the information half a dozen times, but he can’t help going back to comb over the articles and police reports again. The pictures too. Absent-mindedly, he reaches over to pick up his glass and take a sip. Natasha’s a vodka girl and a bad influence, and since it’s Friday Bucky’s had a few by now. He’s pleasantly drunk. He looks back at the papers. Coulson had told him he had until Monday to get Rogers on board, and the thought of approaching the man has been consuming Bucky’s thoughts all day. Natasha’s sitting Indian style on the carpet, one of the couch pillows tucked into her lap. She sighs for a third time as she continues flicking through Bucky’s watch list on Netflix. By the fourth sigh, Bucky stops pretending that he hasn’t been ignoring her. He glances up. “Sorry,” he says. “I know I’m being boring.”

“You’re obsessing,” Natasha corrects him. “Stop working and watch something trashy with me.” Natasha has a penchant for bad horror movies. When Bucky glances at the television screen he can see that she’s pulled up _Anaconda_.

“Oh, a classic.” 

“Yeah. Unless you want to try _Mama_?” 

Bucky looks back at his folder. “Whichever you want.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You’ve literally been a slave to your job for the past three months. _Literally_. Now come on.” 

“Okay yeah you’re right.” Bucky says, but he’s still tracing a finger over the photograph of Steve that’s in the folder. “I just feel bad for him.” He’s not an idiot. He knows Coulson wants him to use Rogers’ past to guilt him into helping. Or something along those lines. Coulson wouldn’t have given Bucky the folder of intel otherwise. The man may seem fairly happy and benign, but sometimes Phil surprises Bucky with how cutthroat he can be. 

Natasha’s read through the dossier too. She knows exactly who Bucky’s talking about. She also knows that it won’t do her friend any good to go getting a crush on Steve Rogers. “Stop staring at his picture and stop feeling bad for him,” she chides. “You had your arm ripped off on the job.”

“So?”

“So?” Natasha shrugs in a way she wouldn’t if she hadn’t already had a few drinks. “So that’s worse. You win.”

“I just know how hard it is to come back after that.” 

“After having your arm ripped off?”

Bucky shoots her a look. “You know what I mean. I feel bad for him.” Bucky looks back down at the folder, flips to the newspaper article that’s behind it. It’s dated from a year ago. The tile reads: _Deadly Explosion Rocks Factory in Meatpacking District_. Bucky’s read it six times so he knows the rest. “I feel bad for him,” Bucky sighs.

“Yeah. You tend to repeat yourself when you’re drunk.” Natasha salutes him with her glass.

“I’m not drunk.” Bucky takes another sip from his. 

“That’s what drunk people say. Now, I’m putting _Mama_ on. And you are not going to talk about anything else for the rest of the night unless it’s about you, me, or….” she glances at the televisions screen, “a vengeful spirit who kills to protect two feral children. Got it? No work, no stress, no Steve.”

“…Nat,” Bucky argues. He intends to keep going but then his eyes land on the vodka bottle that’s in the kitchen. He decides to get a refill instead. Once they’re both settled back on the couch, Natasha snuggles up against Bucky’s side and they start the film.

-oOo-


	3. Steve: The Right Thing to Do

-oOo-

Two weeks go by and Steve doesn’t hear from the FEDs. He doesn’t figure he ever will. The Hydra case is over and that’s all there is to it. 

So he bitches about it at the water cooler like everyone else and moves on with life. The silver lining of course is that with the Hydra case suddenly ripped out from under their fingers, it’s actually pretty easy for everybody to reroute their attention to other matters. It’s September now, so Steve’s got several of his newbies doing the rounds at the local schools for “Good touch/bad touch” talks. Wanda and Pietro are less than pleased at their beat, but someone’s got to do it. 

Steve himself has a fair amount of work to do. The weather hasn’t turned cold yet, so there’s been no drop in their usual case load. Less street walkers in the winter makes obvious sense, but for some reason that Steve doesn’t like to examine too closely, sex-related crimes in general tend to drop off during the winter months as well. Not enough, just some.

The workdays morph into a more bearable ten hour average, and Steve has some free time to do more of the things he likes. He starts a new painting, has Sam over to watch a few games and fits in a few extra workouts. At Sam’s urging, he goes on a date with somebody he meets on Tinder. It doesn’t turn out to be anything Steve thinks he should pursue, but he has a fun time. Other than the one date, Steve’s romantic life is relegated to he, himself, and his right hand. One night, Steve has a dream about a certain omega FBI agent. He wakes up, hot and hard beneath the sheets. It’s the sort of problem that Steve fixes first, then thinks about later. When he does let himself think about it, Steve decides that since he won’t be seeing the handsome agent again, he’s fair game for the spank bank. So the new routine becomes picturing one Bucky Barnes while he touches himself. It’s a nice picture, and life moves on.

Until Steve runs into Bucky Barnes in real life. 

It hasn’t exactly been a good day. Steve gets home and, because it’s raining and he’s so bone-weary, the trudge up the two flights of stairs to his apartment seems to take longer than usual. Locking the deadbolt seems to bring more satisfaction than it usually does, and Steve lets loose a sigh he’s been holding in. After hours of dealing with a particularly heinous molestation case at work, he’s not in the best of moods. It doesn’t help when he decides to make dinner and finds his fridge all but empty. Steve glances peevishly to the window, where it’s still coming down pretty hard outside. “Crap.” He decides to call and order Chinese. Better that than a walk to the grocery store.

Steve showers and throws on a tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He’s turned the tv on just for the noise, and he’s opening a beer when his buzzer sounds. Setting the bottle down, he goes over to let the Chinese food guy up. “Hello?” he says through the intercom.

Normally, the delivery guy from Steve’s usual place says, “Hunan Wok Delivery,” unreasonably loudly into the speaker. So Steve is taken aback when a non-accented voice says, _“Sergeant Rogers?”_ It’s a man, but Steve doesn’t recognize the voice. 

“That’s me. Sorry, who is this?”

A pause, then, _“It’s Agent Barnes. May I come up?”_

It only takes Steve a second to shake his brain into remembering who “Agent Barnes” is. When he does, he has an inappropriate flash of the fantasy he’d pictured the last time he’d jerked off—nothing that’s going to help him _now_. “Christ,” he hisses, admonishing himself. 

_“What?”_

Steve’s eyes shoot back to the speaker. That couldn’t have sounded friendly. “Uh, sorry,” he rushes. “Stubbed my… elbow.” Steve’s eyes widen and he takes his finger off the intercom button before he can say anything else stupid. _“Elbow?!”_ he mouths to himself. 

_“…May I come up?”_ Bucky asks again. _“I have some important information about our investigation that I need to discuss with you.”_

“Yeah. Sure.” Steve buzzes him in, and the time in-between that and when his sweaty hand is twisting the doorknob to his apartment doesn’t really seem to exist. He’s opening the door about a millisecond after a knock comes from the other side. 

Agent Barnes looks a little surprised at the speed with which it’s flung open. “Oh,” he says, straitening himself. “Hello.”

Steve swallows. “Hi.” He can instantly smell the sweet, pancakey syrup scent of the other man. Unlike when they’d met, Bucky’s got two arms now. They fill out the sleeves of the leather jacket he’s wearing. Bucky removes the jacket and looks around like he's looking for a coat hook or something. Floundering, Steve takes it from him with a polite smile. He hangs it in the hall closet, not missing the vague scent of some alpha on it. When he looks at Bucky again he notices that he's wearing a dark blue sweater with a crew-style neck. It’s not something most omegas would wear in public. It leaves his neck completely bared, a bond mark visible on the left. Steve winds up staring for a second longer than is okay before he catches himself and takes a step back. “Uh, sorry. Right. Come on in.” He gestures back and Bucky gives him a tight smile and follows him in. “Is this going to take long?” Steve asks. He’s immediately grateful that he’s facing away from Bucky when he says it, because he cringes at how rude it sounds. “I mean it’s fine if it does, I just had ordered some food.” He spins around, trying to look friendly. “Chinese. You’re welcome to have some.” 

Bucky’s smile becomes less tight. “Maybe.” He nods at Steve’s couch. “You mind if I sit?”

“No, yeah. Of course!” Steve feels stupid for not having offered. He thinks of his mother then. He can just hear her voice, prattling on about how omegas don’t have to be the only well-mannered ones in the world. “Do you want anything to drink?” Steve asks, walking into the kitchen to give himself an extra second of composure. “I’ve got water or, uh,” he opens his fridge and sees the beer. Is that appropriate? “...Well, water.”

“I’m good,” Bucky says. 

Steve returns to the couch. “Okay.” His apartment’s small. He’s got his couch by the tv and that’s it for seating, so Steve doesn’t feel like he can just plop down. He’s standing there in the middle of the carpet like an oversized floor lamp, while Bucky looks perfectly collected on his couch. Steve tucks his hands into his pockets and asks, “What do we have to talk about?”

Bucky’s mouth twists and he shifts to pull the folder he’s got in his lap open. His one hand—the one he didn’t have before—is metal, Steve notices. “Sitwell’s trying to make contact again,” Bucky says.

“With who?”

Bucky looks up at him like he’s dumb. “With you. Or, well, with Dr. Steven Grant.”

Oh. Steve’s lips part. “Okay.” He feels like sitting down. He looks around as if he’ll suddenly see another chair, plopped down from the heavens.

“Here.” Bucky is scooting a few unnecessary inches over towards the arm of the couch, indicating that Steve should join him. “It’s your house,” he teases.

Steve grimaces, is about to be relaxed enough to sit, but then the buzzer to the intercom rings again and he shoots up. “That’ll be the food,” he tells Bucky. He’s glad to have the excuse to step out into the hall and pay the delivery guy when he comes up. He stands there for a moment even when he’s alone again, trying to breathe in the smell of Szechuan and figure out what the fuck has got him feeling so awkward around this man. “Get it together Rogers,” he tells himself, turning back into the apartment. “I always order too much,” he announces when he brings the bag into the kitchen, starts unloading all the take-out boxes onto the counter. “It’s just a cheap place around the corner, but if you’re hungry you can feel free.” He glances up to see Bucky watching him from the couch. He appears to have something of an amused smirk on his face. 

“You don’t get many house guests, do you?” he asks.

Steve feels heat creep up his face. “Uh well, no.” He starts opening the container of orange chicken. Is it that obvious? “How’d you figure?”

The sound of Bucky’s chuckle is deep and warm and Steve _hates_ how much he lights up at it. Bucky’s come over to the counter and taken one of Steve’s paper plates. He begins loading it up with crab Rangoon, then lo mein. “Paper dinnerware,” he explains. “Plus it smells like nothing but take out and alpha in here,” he tells Steve. “Mostly just alpha.” 

“Yeah I live alone,” Steve offers. Then he thinks, “Well Sam comes over a lot. But I guess he’s the only one. Huh.” Steve frowns. That sounds kind of sad. “Huh.”

Bucky’s filled his plate. He goes back to the couch and after a moment, Steve joins him. The food helps Steve’s nerves somehow. It gives him something to do with his hands. “Sam’s alpha,” Bucky says like he knows, not bothering to ask. Steve figures he can smell him.

“Yeah. We work together.” Steve tenses. “You’ve actually met him. The uh, the driver. My driver from that night?”

Bucky’s eyes bleed over in recognition. “Oh, ha. Yeah.” He smiles at Steve. “Don’t think he likes me.”

“Well what do you expect?” It’s out of Steve’s mouth before he can think about it. He shrugs apologetically, refusing to take it back. “He worked hard for that bust. Put in a lot of hours. We all wanted to see those scumbags brought in.” Steve averts his eyes. “Sorry I just—”

“No, don’t be.” Bucky says through a big bite of food. “I get it. I’ve had the rug yanked out from under my feet before. I know how it feels.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I wasn’t always a FED, you know. Being outranked sucks.”

Steve can’t help it, he huffs a laugh. “Yeah. So…you’re handling the case now?” 

“My boss is,” Bucky corrects. “Agent Rumlow. You met him?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, briefly.” It’d been in Fury’s office, back at the precinct the night of the bust. Steve hadn’t liked the man’s cocksure attitude, but every alpha and their mother on the force had been posturing that night so he can’t really say he’d judged the guy fairly. “He seemed… nice.”

Bucky snorts, loudly and immediately. It takes Steve by surprise. “No he’s not.” Bucky’s eyes are shining. He’s _smiling_. Steve realizes that Bucky is goddamn gorgeous when he smiles. “Brock’s an asshole.”

“That’s his name?” Steve asks. 

That makes Bucky’s smile fade, and Steve is sorry he said anything. “Yeah,” Bucky says, setting his plate aside. “Yeah it is. Brock Rumlow.” He recovers, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “My partner who you met? That’s Natasha. And I’m James; Barnes, but feel free to call me Bucky. Everyone does.” He holds out his hand, loose and inviting like it’s completely commonplace to do so. 

“Oh.” Steve is taken aback and spends a millisecond too long staring. He’s shook maybe ten omegas’ hands in his life. _Maybe_. By the time he’s reached out and taken Bucky’s hand in his own, the friendly light in the other man’s eyes has waned. “Sorry,” Steve apologizes, taking his hand back. “I guess I’m not used to this.”

“Not used to what exactly?” Bucky counters, purposefully obtuse. 

“Well I’ve only ever worked professionally with one omega before,” Steve admits, giving in. It’s obvious that Agent Barnes isn’t going to let him avoid the topic, so Steve tries levelling with him. “Even my high school was segregated, you know? I’m not trying to be rude or anything. It’s just not every day that I come across someone like you. You know: in a position like yours.” Steve shrugs. “It’s hard. I guess I don’t know the right way to act.” He means it in a chivalrous way. In an _I don’t want to seem forward or socially presumptuous around you_ way, but he can tell the moment he says it that Bucky isn’t going to leave it at that. 

“I’m just a person,” he challenges. “How is that hard?”

Steve looks down. “I’m not trying to be rude. I was just raised to have manners is all.”

“I don’t need your manners,” Bucky snaps. “I need your cooperation. If you can manage it, that is.”

Steve sighs and looks back up. Bucky’s pancake smell has soured, and Steve is pretty sure he must be scenting similarly by now. “My cooperation?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” Bucky shoves his hand out, offering Steve the file folder he brought. Steve takes it and opens it, and it’s as he’s perusing the documents within that Bucky summarizes, “Hydra organizes events for their premiere members. Sitwell must’ve thought you had the right stuff because he reached out.”

Steve glances up. “What kind of events?”

Bucky gives him a _look_. “What kind do you think?” Steve gulps and looks back down to the packet. “Sitwell is the highest up the chain we’ve gotten so far. From what little we know, he may be the third or even second in command of the whole operation. We’re hoping that if we can get a guy further inside the power structure, we can uncover the leader and bring the whole thing down. For that to work we need to be invited in. You’re the only one who’s gotten that invite.”

“And you want me to work for you?” Steve guesses. 

“With us,” Bucky corrects.

“And why should I do that?” Steve asks, making sure to steel his voice. “What even makes you think I can? I’m a New York City police officer. I have a boss.”

“Police Chief Ross has already approved it, pending your agreement,” Bucky throws out. At Steve’s look of surprise he adds, “Officially it’ll be a leave of absence, but unofficially…”

“I’ll be getting paid ‘vacation’ from the FBI,” Steve finishes for him, solemn.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Steve sighs, sets the folder aside and runs his hands through his hair. He feels tired all of a sudden. “Look,” he says, “I’m not so sure you should be placing all your chips on me. I’ve only been back on the force for a few months. Before that I was already on leave for half a year. And before that…” Steve peters off. “Well it’s just been a difficult year.”

“I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were in charge of the Gregorovitch case. The one that went south. You took six months off because you got hurt. Got the department’s medal of valor for it though.”

Steve is frowning heavily by the time Bucky finishes, his throat aches from holding back a growl. “Well don’t you know so much. I assume Rumlow told you that? Or maybe Ross? Told you to come over here and guilt me into helping you?”

Bucky doesn’t look offended. He looks at Steve like he’d expected him to get upset. “Something like that,” he admits softly. “I’d seen you at Bellevue on the PT ward. Though I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were just another face.”

Steve is confused. His first thought—illogical as it is—is that Bucky means he was working there. He wonders for a second if the omega volunteers in his off time. “You saw me in the hospital?” 

“Uh huh.”

“What were you doing there? Visiting someone?” That makes more sense, he thinks. 

“I’d just gotten this.” He holds out his left arm, the metal hand visible from beneath his sweater. “Physical therapy’s a bitch but...” he shrugs. “You were on the same hallway as me. I think. Saw you getting wheeled around a few times.”

Steve blinks. “Oh.” For some reason, he’d assumed that Bucky had had the arm for a long time. He moves around so fluidly with it, so easily, like it’s always been a part of him. Plus he’s so damn self-assured, especially for an omega, that Steve hadn’t even considered what sort of trauma might have led up to him having the prosthesis in the first place. “And you remembered me?” he asks.

“Not really,” Bucky admits. “Just your face.” He grins. “Not every day you see someone as good looking as you being pushed around in a wheelchair.” Steve feels himself blush. Bucky doesn’t tease him though. “You had some pretty severe shrapnel wounds,” he says. “That sucks.”

Steve forgets the heat in his face, anger—at himself, not Bucky—pushing the blush away. “I got lucky,” he snaps, not wanting to hear another person tell him what a hero he’s been. “Other people weren’t.” If Bucky knows what he means, he doesn’t push his luck by saying so. He just nods at Steve like he understands their heart-to-heart is over. 

“Kay. Don’t talk about the bombing. Got it.” He picks his plate of Chinese back up and starts back in on the lo mein he’d dumped there. “Point is, I know you’re going to agree to help me, so you might as well stop fronting so I can go home and get some sleep. It is the weekend you know.”

Steve gapes. He’s in law enforcement so of course he’s met forward people, but never someone so blatantly… and an omega no less. Steve hates to subscribe to designation stereotypes but… they exist for a reason. “What makes you so sure that I’ll agree?” he challenges.

Bucky finishes chewing, the noodles loud and obnoxious in his mouth, before answering, “The same reason you came back to the police force after your leave.” 

Steve feels like Bucky can see right inside his brain, and it makes him wish he’d never buzzed him into the building. “What’s that?” he asks, because he has to.

Bucky smiles, but this time it’s not arrogant or smug. It’s sad. “Because it’s the right thing to do,” he tells him. He takes a final bite of food before setting the paper plate back on the coffee table, both spring rolls scooped off it and into his metal hand. He’s quick to show himself to the door, only calling back to say, “My card’s in the folder. Tell your boss you’ll be at my field office on Monday.”

The door to Steve’s apartment shuts, leaving the room feeling unnaturally silent and still. Steve stares at where Bucky’s left, only remembering to go over and flip the deadbolt shut after a few long moments. He turns around and scrubs his face. When he brings his hands down, his eyes land on one of the pictures he’s got framed on the wall near the door. It’s his ma. Steve can hear her voice in his head, imagines what she’d be saying right about now. Probably something along the lines of, “You know he’s right Steven. Now get your butt in gear and call Nick.” Sometimes Steve thinks that his inner conscious’ voice is annoyingly similar to his ma’s. 

Below the picture of Sarah Rogers is one of Steve with his old team. His eyes flick to it before he can stop himself. It’d been taken almost two years ago, at the precinct but clearly off hours since they’re all dressed in their civvies. Steve is standing next to last in line, Gabe Jones on his right and the rest—Clint, Sam, Dum Dum and Rhodey—on his left. It’s painfully fitting that Gabe is the only one on Steve’s one side, given that he’s the only one who’s been knocked off their roster. It’s occurred to Steve (had occurred to him, before he’d hung the picture) that he could just fold the edge over, so that Gabe wouldn’t be there, smiling out at him. Reminding him. But that’s not right. Steve thinks it in the same voice as his mother used to use. He needs to be reminded. He presses his finger to Gabe’s chest and tells him, “You suck,” before going back to the couch to finish his dinner.

Steve eats his food and curses his ma and Gabe and Bucky, because he’s fucked. That damn FBI agent has him all figured out. Or at least, Steve admits, at least the important parts. Steve’s going to have to go undercover. Going to have to put himself and the omega in danger. Going to have to help the very people who trampled all over his department’s hard work. Going to have to pretend to be a despicable human being one more time, because it’s the right thing to do. 

-oOo-


	4. Steve: Awkward Encounters

-oOo-

Steve is standing next to the desk of someone whose nameplate reads “Happy.” 

The man seated behind said desk looks anything but. Steve would assume that the nameplate is a joke but, given that he’s currently standing in the Manhattan FBI field office, he doesn’t. Happy is the secretary to Director Coulson, the man whom Steve is here to meet. The meeting itself has him stressed out, but he’s actually a bit enthused at the prospect of seeing Bucky again. _Agent Barnes_ , Steve reminds himself as he waits. He needs to start thinking in more professional terms. He continues to stand uselessly for another minute or so before he hears a ‘ding’ and turns around to see a familiar face. “Bucky,” he says, smiling despite himself. “Hi.” Bucky’s just come out of the elevator doors, agent Rumlow at his side. Bucky looks happy to see him, Rumlow does not. 

“What do we have here?” Rumlow says as they approach. He holds out his hand for Steve to shake, grip firmer than strictly necessary when Steve does. “Detective Rogers,” he greets, “So good that you’ve decided to cooperate with our investigation.”

“It’s Sergeant, Brock,” Bucky tells him. Steve doesn’t miss his use of the man’s first name, nor does he miss the cool look Rumlow throws at Bucky. Brock steps back from their handshake with a terse smile, presumably at having been corrected by his subordinate. He smells annoyed, and for the first time Steve realizes that he’s scented Brock before. Steve frowns, trying to remember where he… then it hits him. When Bucky had come to his apartment he’d been wearing a jacket that smelled like alpha. It’d smelled like Brock. 

Steve glances down to Rumlow’s left hand and sees the wedding band there. He feels himself fluster. _Oh_ , he realizes. The two of them are together. Embarrassment floods Steve like a teenager, making him feel small. How stupid he’s been! Jerking off to thoughts of the pretty FBI agent, mooning over Bucky when here he is, married to another agent; his boss. But of course he is. Steve had been fooling himself to think that someone like Bucky wouldn’t already be taken. He tries to make himself look calm as he meets Bucky’s gaze. “Bucky,” he says, “Nice to see you again.”

Bucky looks like he might answer, but Brock beats him to the chase. “We were just coming down to grab you. Director Coulson’s all set up for the call in our conference room. It’s this way.” He turns as if Steve and Bucky should just tag along, and after a tense glance with each other, they do.

In the conference room, Agent Coulson is just finishing up a phone call on his cell. He signals that he’ll be right with them, and when he hangs up he has a pleasant set to his face. “Rumlow, Barnes.” He nods at his agents. “And Sergeant Rogers,” he greets, gesturing to the chairs at his end of the table. “Welcome. I’d like to personally thank you for agreeing to assist on this case. We are truly in a position where we couldn’t do this without you.”

Steve smiles politely and shakes Coulson’s hand when it’s offered. The difference between the welcome he’s gotten from Rumlow versus Coulson is stark, to say the least. “I’m happy to help,” he says. “Agent Barnes explained the nature of the situation to me.”

“Yes,” Coulson agrees. “If you’ll all take a seat, we can do what we came here to do.” Coulson pulls out his chair, and Bucky and Brock do the same. Steve swallows, rolling out the last remaining conference chair and sitting down. In the middle of the table is a phone set. Beside it sit three ear pieces. Bucky, Brock and Coulson each take one to listen in to the call, and Steve picks up the phone receiver. Coulson looks right at him and says, “The number’s preprogrammed in. When you’re ready, hit the ‘one’ button and it’ll dial out.”

Steve nods, anxiety curling in his gut and polluting the back of his tongue. It’s the same flavor as when he’d been in the back of the spook van with Clint, preparing to go rescue six omega trafficking victims. It’s the feeling that if he screws this up, lives will be ruined. “Kay,” he says.

“Do you have any questions?” Coulson asks, a last chance for Steve to say anything. But Steve shakes his head in the negative, and Coulson tells him, “Good. Remember: if it’s not Sitwell who answers you should ask for him. He left the message and you don’t feel comfortable speaking with anyone else.” Steve nods. Then, after taking a deep breath, he pushes the one button on the phone. The dial tone sounds, and then Steve can hear the number dialing out. It rings twice before the call’s picked up. 

_“Sitwell,”_

In his head, Steve imagines the sigh of relief that he can’t allow himself to breathe. He glances to Coulson, who gives him the thumbs up, then to Bucky and Brock. “Hello,” Steve manages, getting his head in the game. “Jasper? This is Steve.”

_“Who?”_

“Um,” Steve clears his throat. “Dr. Steven Grant?”

 _“Steve! Oh yeah. How are you?”_ Sitwell sounds pleased, as if he’s just stepped out to lunch and received a friendly call from a business associate. _“I was hoping you’d get in touch,”_ he says. _“How’s your omega working out? Worth the money I hope.”_

Steve glances up at Bucky, to where he and Brock are sitting side by side, listening in. “Yeah. He’s… great,” Steve says. “Exactly what I wanted.” Steve sees some muscle on the side of Brock’s face twitch, and he feels incredibly awkward. He flattens his palm against the wood of the table, trying to steady his pulse. _Focus_ , he tells himself. He needs to remember all of the things he’s planned out in his head to say to Sitwell in the various scenarios of how this phone call could go. Thinking about it helps to keep him calm and, more importantly, helps him to slip into the role of Dr. Steven Grant (cardiologist, rich guy supreme, closet omegaphile). 

_“He behaving for you yet?”_ Sitwell is asking. 

“Oh,” Steve pauses to think. “Yeah. It took a few days but I ah, I’ve done this before.”

 _“Almost all of them fight for a bit, if it’s any consolation,”_ Sitwell tells him.

“Of course. He’s alright now. Glad I have a secure place though I’ll tell you that. First night was rough,” Steve says, inserting a degree of humor into his voice that he _in no way_ feels. “I’d hate to think what he could’ve done with two arms.”

On the other end of the line, Sitwell chuckles along. _“He was quick to get with the program when we acquired him, too. Some omegas are just more geared that way, you know? Deep down they know they’re not meant to be in charge, that they need control in their lives. They crave it, even. You’ve just got to give them the chance to realize it.”_

Steve’s gripping the phone tighter now than when this conversation started. “Yeah,” he manages to choke out. “I guess so.”

 _“You’re lucky to have gotten one of the more cooperative ones,”_ Sitwell says. _“Tell me: do you have him sober yet?”_

Steve glances up at Coulson, half-way panicked as to what to say. Coulson shakes his head in indication that Steve should say no. He holds up his fingers in a “little bit” gesture. “Not…yet,” Steve says into the receiver. “I’m weaning him off. He seems well behaved but I can’t be too sure this early on, you know?”

_“Oh of course. Look, I don’t have too much time to chat right now but like I said in my earlier message, you’re very much welcome to bring him along to our get-together, if you’re interested. I think you’ll have a fun time.”_

Steve smiles where he sits, still in character as he reaches across the conference table for the pen and paper that Coulson’s handing him. “Definitely. Just tell me when and where.”

-oOo-

Steve and Bucky had exchanged personal cell numbers before parting ways at the FBI field office. It was Bucky’s idea, and while Steve had been fine with it, he definitely felt that it was odd, especially since the omega was married. To his boss and coworker. With whom Steve would also have to be working. 

Needless to say, Steve isn’t too sure he would have pulled out his phone if Brock had been standing right there when Bucky suggested it. But Brock hadn’t been there, and given past experiences with Steve voicing his more traditional sensibilities to Bucky about what was and was not appropriate when it came to alpha-omega interactions, he’d decided to keep his mouth shut and hand over his phone for Bucky to type his number in. 

Steve is still taken aback when he receives a call a few days later, asking him to drive Bucky to a doctor’s appointment. He splutters a confused, “Okay, sure? I guess?” before he’s given an address and a time, told to show up, and the call is ended. Steve is left staring at his phone, wondering why Bucky sounded so grumpy. 

It’s precisely two hours after said phone call and Steve is sitting in a room in Stark tower, of all places. It _seems_ like it could possibly be an exam room, but in all honesty it kind of resembles more of an expensive workshop. Steve is sitting on a comfy padded bench thing, Bucky’s in a chair, and they’re both twiddling their thumbs. “So…” Steve looks over at Bucky. “I thought you said this was a doctor’s’ appointment?”

Bucky side-eyes him. Luckily, he hasn’t seemed grumpy since Steve picked him up outside his building, but he definitely seems uncomfortable about the whole situation. Steve figures that makes two of them. “It is,” Bucky says. He looks down at his hand—the metal one. Steve hasn’t missed how he’s been fidgeting with it all morning; flexing it and staring at it forlornly since Steve picked him up. “It’s pretty cool, huh?” Bucky asks him. 

“What?” Steve asks. “Oh, yeah. Really cool.” He’s actually never seen anything like it, but up until now Bucky hasn’t really talked about it, and Steve didn’t want to seem like he was fixated on the guy’s disability or whatever, so he’s left it alone. “Why’d you have it, um, detached? Before?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Wasn’t my idea. But Hydra wouldn’t have come close to viewing me as a target if I’d had a weapon attached to me.” He looks down, flexing his metal fingers appreciatively. “Had to lose the arm if I was going to be taken. I was just getting used to having it back.”

Steve frowns at that. “You know I’ve been meaning to ask you something. If you’ve been under cover for three months and the bureau has been investigating Hydra for over a year, then how come we weren’t notified? It would have saved us a lot of trouble you know.”

“I know.” Bucky gives him an apologetic smile. “But we’re not from the New York field office. This started on the west coast.”

Steve can’t help it, he’s surprised and it shows. “What? Really?” 

Bucky nods. “At L.A. headquarters. Brock…” Bucky frowns a little bit. “Agent Rumlow, Natasha and I got involved in Chicago.” He gives Steve a meaningful look. “And we’re not the only ones who’ve relocated to pursue the assignment. I told you this was bigger than you realized.”

“The entire _country_?” Steve is equal parts horrified and amazed. He’s never heard of such a sophisticated human trafficking ring. 

“Given the scale, they’ve put together a task force. We’re part of it. Sitwell’s just the one in your backyard. Trust me: there’re a lot more.”

Steve slumps. “Jeez.”

“Now do you see why we couldn’t let you make your move?” Bucky asks. “We could be looking at hundreds of victims.”

Steve has to nod. There isn’t even room for his pride anymore. Bucky had been right. “This is huge,” Steve mutters. He looks back to Bucky again, curious. “But why was sending a vulnerable agent into such a dangerous situation the best option?” He leaves out the words _omega_ , and _disabled_ , but they’re implied.

Bucky frowns, whatever easiness he’d had before now gone. It makes Steve wish he could take back the question. “I volunteered,” is all Bucky says. He sighs and looks out the big glass wall of windows that looks out on Midtown. It’s a fabulous view that’s being wasted on the two of them. After a tense moment of silence he turns in the swivel chair he’s been sitting in, huffing. “You know, he specifically said to be here at eleven. I don’t know what the hell is taking so long. Prick.”

Steve chews his lip. “Who’s ‘he’?” he asks gingerly. 

“Stark,” Bucky says. “Thinks he’s god’s gift to humankind.”

Steve’s eyes widen. He looks over at Bucky with a newfound interest. “Tony Stark? _The_ Tony Stark?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“I thought you said this was a doctor’s appointment?!” Specifically, Bucky had told him that he had a doctor’s appointment for which he was going to have to be sedated and would be “goopy after” and could not bring himself home from, and his friend and scheduled escort (Agent Romanov, weirdly enough) had bailed at the last minute. “Tony Stark?!” Steve says again.

“I know,” Bucky admits sullenly. “But he is sedating me. He just has to take my arm off.” He stops and thinks about his words, then says, “Again.”

“Tony Stark is taking your arm off?” Steve repeats. “Why?”

“Because we’re meeting Sitwell in a week, and he’s a vindictive prick who wants to make me live one-armed for an unnecessary amount of time,” Bucky gripes. “He said today was the only day he could do it.”

Steve nods, but he’s still not over the part about how Bucky knows THE Tony Stark. He is, at least to Steve’s knowledge, one of the richest men in the world. Certainly the richest omega. Steve’s seen him on tv and such. All of a sudden, something very obvious strikes him. “He’s the one who gave you the arm,” he says. A look at Bucky confirms it. “Wow.”

“Do me a favor and don’t act all star-struck in front of him,” Bucky says. “I made that mistake when he first offered me the chance to be his lab rat, and his ego is…” Bucky peters off, looking at Steve critically. “Well it’s big enough.”

Steve can’t help it, he laughs. Bucky scowls at him. Once Steve has sobered, he says, “Okay. So Stark made the arm. And _he_ approached _you_ about it?” 

“Yeah. I was still in the hospital after I’d lost my arm and I guess he’d been asking around for the best candidates.” Bucky shrugs, his metal shoulder moving with the rest of him. “It was a big experimental deal. And it was going to take more than a few operations. He wasn’t sure if it would work the way he hoped either. Needless to say, not everyone on the amputation ward was lining up to be experimented on.”

“But you were?” Steve asks. He’s not sure, but given Bucky’s tone, he thinks he may be treading on sensitive territory here.

“I’d have done just about anything to be functional again,” Bucky says quietly. He doesn’t expound on that and Steve doesn’t ask. “So yeah. I got the anchor, I got the arm.” He glances up and must notice Steve’s questioning look. “Well he had to dig out practically my whole side first,” Bucky explains. He holds up his arm. “This thing is metal. Damn powerful too. It’d rip me apart if it weren’t anchored to my bones and nerves and shit.”

Steve gulps. “I get it. I think.” He must have some sort of nauseous expression on his face, because Bucky laughs at him.

“Okay, Mr. big strong alpha. I guess I won’t be telling you the story of how I lost it then.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “We can save that one for another day.” It’s then that the door to their room bursts open, and in comes the very man they’ve been discussing. Steve gapes.

“Robocop! Back again.” Tony Stark, in the flesh, points at Bucky and tells Steve, “You know, never have I ever met a man so eager to be rid of my fabulous inventions.” 

“Maybe if you invented a more portable version,” Bucky gripes. “Don’t you have an iron suit that folds into like, an iphone?”

Stark fake-laughs and points at Bucky. “This guy.” He turns around and walks over to one of the room’s workbenches, starts picking up tools. “Oh, and this is Dr. Banner,” Tony says, indicating the other man who’s walked in with him. This guy is much quieter, and he seems normal. He scents neutral, and Steve assumes he’s beta. 

“Hi,” he says to Steve with a small wave. “I’m Bruce.”

Steve feels like he smiles awkwardly, but Bucky stands up to give the guy a familiar hand shake-turned hug. “Nice to see you again Dr. Banner.” Bucky looks over at Steve and introduces, “Steve, Dr. Banner is the one who’s done most of the real work.”

“Um, No,” Tony throws out from his work bench.

“He’s a great doctor,” Bucky tells Steve. He introduces Steve to Dr. Banner as his friend and coworker, and Steve blushes just a little bit at being called either, let alone both. He shakes Dr. Banner’s hand when it’s offered. 

“Nice to meet you.”

“Up on the table my little android,” Tony interrupts. “Time for my scheduled visitation with STACI.”

“‘Stacy’?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky for clarification. 

“Don’t,” Bucky warns. Steve shuts his mouth. Bucky hops up on the table by Stark, and Stark immediately makes a flapping motion with his hands. Apparently this means Bucky should remove his shirt, because he does. Steve’s lips part and he can’t look away. 

Oh, Bucky is just as good looking as Steve would’ve imagined, and he _has_ imagined. There’s extensive scarring all along the omega’s left side—both where the arm connects and further down his torso. Steve can see why Bucky phrased it that Stark had had to “dig out” his whole side; it pretty much looks like he did. But the scars aren’t what’s got Steve staring. Bucky’s broad, and cut, and has the most attractive nipples… Steve forces his eyes to the floor with an awkward cough. “I can, um, wait outside if you need,” he offers.

Presumably, everyone turns to look at him. Steve doesn’t know because he’s still looking at the floor. “Well isn’t he cute,” Tony says. Steve glances up at him peevishly. “We’re all grownups here,” Tony says. He’s already back to examining Bucky’s arm. Steve feels embarrassed but doesn’t say anything. Bucky is looking at him with a mixture of amusement and an “I told you so” look. While Tony fiddles with Bucky’s mechanical arm, Bruce busies himself with taking his vitals. 

“No foods or liquids since midnight?” he asks Bucky gently.

Bucky scowls. “No. I'm starving. We could’ve made an earlier appointment.” This is obviously directed at Tony. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Tony tells him. 

“I can really wait outside,” Steve offers again. “If this is going to take a long time.” He feels incredibly awkward, maybe even more so than when he’d been on the phone with Sitwell, objectifying Bucky right in front of the guy’s husband. 

“You can if you want Steve,” Bucky says. He looks at Stark. “You said it’d be what? An hour?”

“I can get it off in thirty minutes,” Tony tells him. He looks at Bruce and Bruce supplies,

“You’ll be under in seconds, but coming out of the anesthesia could take up to an hour, yeah. At least until you can walk.”

Tony looks over at Steve, “Unless big, blond and beefy here’s going to carry you out.”

“I’m just driving,” Steve offers lamely, feeling stupid after he says it. 

Bucky looks at him and tells him kindly, “They have a Starbucks on the main floor. You can go get a coffee or something. Bruce’ll call you back when I’m awake, right Bruce?”

Bruce nods and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Sure thing,” he agrees with a smile. Steve finds that he likes Dr. Banner a great deal more than Tony Stark. 

-oOo- 

Steve is sitting beside the bed that they’ve got Bucky in when he starts to come to. Bucky makes a soft noise, his face scrunching in a way that Steve thinks is graceless, but cute. “Hey,” he says quietly as Bucky blinks his eyes open. “You feel okay?”

Bucky’s still naked from the waist up. He apparently never removed his shoes or pants. It wasn’t real surgery, Banner had explained to Steve when he’d come back up with his coffee. Just complicated mechanical work that was too tied in with Bucky’s nervous system to risk doing with him awake. Hence the sedation. Now there’s a metallic stump where Bucky’s arm usually is, much like when Steve first met him. He looks so much more vulnerable laying there without it, Steve thinks. He’s been sitting at Bucky’s bedside watching over him for a while, thinking about it. 

“Bucky?” Steve repeats. “You alright?” He’s got Bucky’s shirt in a bag that Banner had given him. “Here,” he helps Bucky to sit up and, after a moment helps him to put his shirt on too. Bucky really is “gloopy,” as he’d put it, more so than Steve was expecting him to be. “Here,” he mutters, as he’s trying to focus on getting Bucky’s arm through the arm hole of his tee and _not_ stare at his chest. “Okay, yeah. There you go.”

Bucky looks at him. “Hey Steve,” he slurs. “You’re here.” He says it like he’s happy, giggling a little bit, and Steve has to smile.

“Yeah, I’m here. Are you ready to walk yet?” 

Bucky makes a _‘pft’_ sound from his lips, “No.”

“Okay. Okay.” Steve moves back to sit in the chair he’d been in. “We’ve got time.”

“Can I have some water?” Bucky asks. He sounds overly child-like. Or maybe drunk.

Steve goes out from the recovery room they’re in and finds someone who can direct him to the nearest bottle of water. Banner and Stark had carted Bucky’s arm away and Steve hasn’t seen them since, but a nice lady named Pepper points him to a minifridge and tells Steve to help himself. He returns with Bucky’s water and watches as Bucky gulps the whole thing down. “Impressive,” he tells him. 

Bucky smiles proudly. “Thanksss.” He looks around the room they’re in as if he’s suddenly realizing where they are. “Oh.” He looks down at his left side. “Oh. My arm is gone.” He sounds so sad and forlorn about it and it melts Steve’s heart. “Steve,” Bucky says imploringly, reaching out to take his hand. Steve is surprised but he lets him. “My arm is gone.”

“I know Buck.” Steve pauses. _Buck?_ Where had that come from? “Uh, you’ll get it back soon, okay?”

“Okay.” Bucky seems satisfied by that. “It doesn’t hurt at least. You know how I lost it right?” he asks suddenly, eyes wide like it’s a cool secret he’s about to divulge. Steve grins and shakes his head. Mostly he’s just getting a huge kick out of seeing Bucky like this. “I was on an assignment,” Bucky says. “Brock and I were in this really bad neighborhood in Chicago.” He looks up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “We were chasing a suspect. On the L, you know?” Steve shakes his head, because no, he doesn’t know. This doesn’t derail Bucky however. “I fell off the train!” He laughs, slapping Steve on the shoulder. But he kind of loses his balance because of the lack of his left arm, and Steve has to catch him to stop him from tipping over.

“Whoa, easy there,” he chuckles. “You okay?” 

“Yep.” Bucky puts his face into Steve, sniffing him. “Mmm. You smell nice.”

“Thank you?”

“So we were on the L and I was chasing this guy and we hopped a car and I fell out.”

“I see.”

“And my arm got crushed. Like: it was _bad_ Steve. Blood and guts and—I don’t remember ‘cause I passed out, but Brock says it was really gross.”

“Mm,” Steve is imagining and he really doesn’t want to. He feels like he needs to stop Bucky from continuing this story, given that he’s not really in his right mind. “Why don’t we see if I can track down Dr. Banner?” Steve asks.

“No I want to tell you!” Bucky says. He’s _emphatic_ , and he grabs Steve’s hands where they’re still on his shoulders, holding him steady. “Oh… wait. Maybe I’m dizzy. Can I lay back down?”

Steve frowns. “Sure. Here.” He helps Bucky to lay back down on the bed. This seems to settle Bucky, who closes his eyes and smiles gently. “That’s better.” He opens them again and looks at Steve. “What was I talking about?”

Steve sighs. “Your arm.”

“Right. So anyway, it got ripped off, basically. I was in the hospital for like, ever.” He rolls his eyes. “Then I went home and I couldn’t work. Brock didn’t want me to go back. He said I couldn’t. Everybody said I couldn’t.” Bucky holds out his one hand, pointing at Steve meaningfully. “They don’t let you work in the FBI if you only have one arm you know.”

Steve chuckles despite himself. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“I mean I had to fight in the first place cause I’m, you know, _pft_ ,” Bucky makes that noise again and gestures to himself and Steve isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. “And then my arm falls off.” He sighs. “It was a shit show. Brock said I should just give up. He said I could stay home and we could have kids. That’s what HE wanted. I didn’t.”

Bucky’s tone has gone all sad again, and this is the point where Steve starts feeling uncomfortable again. “I really should go and find doctor Banner,” he hedges, making to stand. “Look, I'll be right back okay?” Bucky makes some grumble of agreement, and when Steve looks at him again he’s got his eyes closed. “Don’t try and go anywhere,” Steve says. He hurries off to see if he’s allowed to try and take Bucky home yet. 

-oOo-


	5. Bucky: A Thing With Steve

-oOo- 

One of Bucky’s favorite things about being roommates with Natasha is that her building has a really nice gym. Bucky’s hated going to public gyms ever since he lost his arm, and now with the prosthesis removed, people have even more reason to stare. Something about seeing an omega with such an obvious disability seems to kick all nearby alphas’ protection instincts into overdrive, and Bucky just knows that if he were to even try a public gym, he’d be overrun.

So yeah, Natasha’s gym is golden. 

It’s Saturday Morning; a perfect time for sleeping, in Bucky’s opinion, but Nat’s got him on the treadmill for cardio instead. She’s absolutely forbidden him from any sort of upper body work until his arm gets put back on. Says it’ll cause a muscle imbalance, or some such nonsense. Bucky grabs his towel and hastily wipes the sweat off his face before slowing the treadmill’s speed back down to a jog for his cool down. He looks enviously over to where Natasha’s doing lateral raises in front of the mirror. “You do realize I have about fifty pounds of muscle on you,” he argues. “I’d be just fine if I—”

“No Barnes.” Bucky rolls his eyes. Natasha’s always been pretty good about keeping her urges in check around him, but he knows where her protectiveness comes from, and it’s not a hundred percent designation-neutral. He only keeps silent about it because she’s his bro. “You can do legs instead,” she tells him, as if this is consolation. “Build up those glutes for the next time you see Sergeant Hottie.” Bucky picks up his sweaty towel to throw it at her, but he’s still jogging and she easily dodges it. “Nice try.”

“I deserve revenge,” he tells her. “What the heck were you doing that was so important last week? I had to call ‘Sergeant Hottie’ to take me. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was? Now he probably figures I have exactly one friend. That’s stupid!”

For the first time, Natasha looks sorry. “I had something I had to do,” she tells him.

“Yeah? Well what was it?” Bucky’s still being peevish, because he can. “I mean _Nat_ : I’m pretty sure I told him something personal when I woke up because he was really awkward by the time he dropped me off.”

Natasha, ever the sensitive one, busts out a laugh at that. “Oh that’s too perfect.”

“Just for that you’d better have a good reason,” he warns her. 

Natasha huffs. She racks her weights and chooses heavier ones for bicep curls. “You know that girl, Darcy? That Hydra had?”

“The one you bought?”

“Yeah.”

“What about her?” 

“Turns out she’s from Detroit. She’d aged out of the foster system there and was living rough when they took her.”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. So I was helping her get set up with some housing assistance and stuff.”

Bucky slows the treadmill down to a walk. “‘And stuff’?” he asks. Natasha doesn’t say ‘and stuff’. It’s not her verbiage. Unless… He peers over at her. “What else?”

Nat side-eyes him. “Nothing. I was just helping her out. She’s got no one else. And besides, she’s sweet.”

Bucky stops the treadmill. There’s a scowl growing on his face but he masks it by picking up his water bottle for a swig. When he’s lowered it and leant back against the side railing of the treadmill, he repeats, “She’s ‘sweet’?” Natasha studiously ignores him. “Oh Nat.”

“What?!” 

“Oh come on! How old can she be? All of eighteen?”

Natasha holds her chin up. “Nineteen. She’s mature for her age.”

Bucky snorts. “Christ.”

“Hey! You know what? I really like her. She makes me laugh and that’s not something many people can do these days. So excuse me for thinking I deserve a bit of levity in my life.” She huffs, racking her weights and sitting down onto the weight bench. “Besides, I think you owe me quite a bit of leeway in my romantic choices, Mr. _Rumlow_.”

Bucky’s countenance darkens. “Not for much longer.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky makes a grumpy face, steps off the treadmill to sit next to her on the bench. They’re both sweaty and stinky but neither cares. “M’going over later today, to pick up the last few boxes. Clothes and stuff.” Natasha looks at him sympathetically and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Nat, I’m gross!”

“You want me to come with you?” she says, ignoring him and rubbing her wrist against the side of his neck. Bucky grumbles but leans into it.

“No.” He sighs. “I don’t even know if he’ll be there, but if he is I don’t want him thinking I feel intimidated or anything.”

She considers him quietly. “Do you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Isn’t that normal though? I mean we were together for years. Ugh.” He scrubs his hand over his face, talks to Natasha through his fingers. “What happened Nat? How’d it get so bad? It was so good when I met him. He was good.”

Natasha makes a noise that makes Bucky think, were he looking up at her, he’d see a scowl. “He was never good Bucky. He was… _better_ , when you met him, and you were stupidly gone for him.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, not knowing what else to say. Because he had been. He’d been twenty-four and fresh from the academy, thrilled to have any job at all let alone one in Chicago’s “Rockstar” critical response unit. And along had come Brock, decorated and handsome and a cool ten years Bucky’s senior. Hell, Bucky figures he never had a chance. “It was stupid,” he says.

Natasha, ever supportive, shoves him. “Don’t go getting all mopey on me Barnes. You’ve got plenty going for you.”

Bucky scoffs, standing up and looking pointedly down at his non-existent left arm. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like Sergeant Hottie,” she smirks.

“Oh god.” Bucky turns right around and heads for the leg press machine. He’ll never tell her, but Nat’s comment about working on his butt really had struck home. “Here we go.”

“What? It’s the perfect opportunity for you to rebound!” she cajoles. Bucky’s adjusting the machine—someone much shorter than him was using it last—and he laughs her off. “It is!” she insists, starting in on her stretches. “Just think: you don’t know him outside of work but he’s not technically your coworker—unlike _someone_ we both know—he’s not in any of your social groups—”

“I don’t have social groups.”

“—and you can fool around with him while simultaneously pretending to be his sex slave.” She licks her lips, grinning. “It’ll be hot. And Brock can watch.”

“God.” Bucky pushes his legs out.

“Then if it doesn’t work out, you just end it. Spic and span. No muss no fuss.”

Bucky has to hand it to her; she’s not wrong. One of Bucky’s biggest mistakes with Brock in the first place—other than, you know, _being_ with him—had been getting involved with someone in his own field; someone who later became his boss. God. Bucky can actually remember when it was hot. He and Brock had _role-played_ about it, for god’s sake. Ugh. The thought makes him shudder now. “He is good looking,” Bucky hedges. “You really think I should—”

“Yes,” she says immediately. “It’ll be good for you. Who knows? It could even be fun.” She stands up from her stretch. “Just don’t let it be fun all over my couch.”

“Thanks for the advice, and Ew.” 

She gives him a salute.

After his shower Bucky lays butt naked on his bed and types out a text to ask Steve if he wants to meet for drinks after work the next day. Texting with one hand is OBNOXIOUS, so it really shows his level of commitment when he deletes and retypes it four different ways (so that it doesn’t sound too desperate/obvious/needy) before hitting send. Needless to say, it makes him feel like a little less of a dork when Steve texts back with a _Yes :) :) Sure. Where & When?_ two minutes later. Bucky texts _IDK_ , and Steve—sweet, helpful Steve—suggests the Irish pub that just so happens to be built into the first level of his apartment building. Bucky does a fist pump and agrees to an 8:00pm meet up.

-oOo- 

Well now it’s 7:45 and Bucky is embarrassingly early. He kind of hopes that Steve is moderately late so that he can pretend he got there only slightly late. Bucky’s been seated at a little two person table by the window and is staring at all the passersby out on the sidewalk. The table’s old, thick wood that’s got nicks and dents that give it character, but Bucky’s in a foul mood and doesn’t appreciate it. 

That morning he’d sucked it up and taken a cab back to his and Brock’s old apartment. Bucky moved out almost a year ago, but he’s still got a key. Brock used to like to go for long runs on Sunday mornings, so Bucky was hoping that he’d luck out and find the apartment empty. He’d only needed to get a few last things, after all.

Well no such fucking luck. Brock _had_ been there, and he’d been a jerk. Not a jerk in a nasty, obviously cruel way. Oh no, it’d never been that simple with Brock. Brock had more delicate ways of hurting you. More intimate ways. And sure enough, Bucky’s soon to be ex-husband hadn’t wasted his opportunity to do so.

Bucky picks up his beer—not exactly his first of the night—and takes another big gulp from it. Then he sees Steve out the window. He’s about to try waving hello, but Steve doesn’t see him. He’s apparently just run into someone he knows out on the sidewalk. Bucky shifts, trying to see… Oh. Well, it’s two people. Bucky recognizes one of them. It’s Sam, Steve’s coworker. The other man’s black too, but he’s in a wheelchair. Steve appears to be speaking with both of them and his face looks…tense. It occurs to Bucky that maybe Steve has invited some friends to join him in this meeting, and his stomach sinks. Suddenly Bucky feels very stupid again. 

But Steve walks into the pub alone. He looks quite unhappy, until he spots Bucky sitting by the window and his face lights up in a smile. It makes Bucky smile, and he stands to give Steve an open-ended side hug (really, it’s the only kind of hug Bucky’s capable of right now). “Bucky,” Steve says, smile still there. “Nice to see you. Thanks for coming.”

Bucky likes how Steve has turned this around to having been his idea. That works for him. “I thought we should meet up again before the assignment,” he says. “We need to get our story straight, you know? Plus I need to apologize for whatever I blabbered about when I was high as a kite.”

Steve goes pink in the cheeks. It’s obvious and it’s the cutest thing when he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, uh. You didn’t say anything really. Just nonsense stuff.”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t push. “I’m sorry I put you in that position anyway,” he says, picking up his beer again. He invites Steve to sit. “My ride bailed last minute. I really had nobody else to call.”

“Brock couldn’t take you?”

Bucky freezes. Oh no. “Oh god,” he grimaces. “I did, didn’t I? I talked about him when I was high?”

Steve makes a guilty face but nods. “Just a little.”

“Oh my god. That’s…” Bucky looks apologetically at Steve. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve’s eyes are still kind. He doesn’t look mad. “It’s fine,” he says. “You couldn’t help it. And honestly it was kind of hilarious seeing you like that.” He pauses. “Still doesn’t answer my question though.”

Bucky bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says, taking another swig of his beer. “Brock and I don’t get along too well these days. I avoid him outside of work.”

Steve frowns, looking confused. “What? But don’t you like…” He looks at Bucky oddly. “Don’t you live together?”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to frown. “Ew. No. I moved out like a year ago.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Psh. Don’t be.” Bucky drinks more beer—he’s almost done with this one now. “That was part of the settlement. He covers the rest of the lease and I waive alimony payments.”

This makes Steve look up. “Oh. You’re divorced?”

“Yes.” Bucky frowns. “Well, almost. Why? Did I say that we were together when I was…” he makes a swirly hand gesture, “you know, goopy?”

“Uh, no. I just, I guess I just assumed.” Steve shrugs. He’s back to looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” he apologizes, _again_. “He was wearing a ring and you smelled like him. I just thought—”

“I smelled like him?!” Bucky KNOWS he should not be smelling like Brock anymore. “No way!”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Your jacket did. Sorry, I should have said that.”

“My jacket?” He can’t remember a jacket that would’ve… What jacket could he have… Oooh. Brock’s leather one. He’d kept/stolen it. And Brock used to _live_ in that Jacket. Bucky cringes, thinks how that jacket must _reek_ of his ex husband. And Bucky’s been wearing it around people and… Oh dear _lord_. But then he looks up and sees how mortified Steve looks, like he’s trying to draw in on himself, and Bucky thinks: Steve remembers what Bucky was wearing when he’d come to his apartment. Not only that, he remembers what he’d _smelled_ like? Huh. He sits back, realizing that Steve maybe, just maybe, has been paying even more attention to Bucky than Bucky has to him. And that could be… well that’s just perfect! He smiles into the last sip of his beer, pleased as punch. Once he sets it back down to the table with a _‘clunk’_ , he tells him, “No, Steve. Brock and I are not ‘together’.” Saying it out loud has never sounded so good. 

Steve, bless his heart, can’t seem to conceal his relief and happiness at that. He makes some sort of attempt to not smile, but Bucky is graced with one anyway. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. Well that’s… much less awkward.”

Bucky laughs, and asks Steve if he wants a beer. Steve makes a face and tells him no way; it’s wine or hard liquor for him. Bucky thinks that Natasha’s going to approve. Things go much easier from there. They order a platter of wings to share, and Bucky keeps drinking beers to Steve’s old fashions. Then the last wing is there, on the plate, staring at them, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do. “Take it,” Steve says, sounding like he means it. Bucky glances up at him, debating whether he should even make an attempt at chivalry. _Fuck it_ , he decides. Steve probably thinks he needs to be the chivalrous one anyway, obnoxiously old-fashioned alpha that he is. Bucky swipes the wing and dips it liberally in the blue cheese sauce. 

“Gross,” Steve is muttering fondly as Bucky tongues the bone clean.

“Wha?” He scowls, grabbing a napkin to wipe self-consciously at his mouth. “You’ve got to get it all.”

Steve laughs at him. “Yep. Sure.”

“Shut up.” Bucky looks down to his beer, swishing what little’s left in it. “You want to get another round?” 

Steve stares at him with a look that is a little bit indecipherable. He twists his lips and says, “Are we drinking to get drunk?”

That makes Bucky pause. Because, yeah, he kind of was, but he hadn’t admitted that to himself until just now. He looks cautiously at Steve. “Well I don’t have work tomorrow,” he says. “And my day hasn’t been the best soo... if you’re game for it I am?”

Steve chuckles and flags their waitress down. “I’ve got another four days of ‘paid vacation’ from the bureau,” he jokes. “Plus, my day’s been weird too.”

“Kay. But we can still be productive,” Bucky argues, pointing a finger at Steve. “Have to get our story straight for this whole shebang.”

“Yeah, of course.” Their waitress appears, and Steve shakes things up by ordering a scotch on the rocks. Bucky graduates to a vodka cranberry and gives Steve the finger when he teases him. “So,” Steve says, evidently trying to be somewhat serious. “What are we walking into come Friday?” They both know what he’s talking about. Friday evening is Sitwell’s party.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Coulson’s exact words were ‘omegaphile fetish party’. Other than that, either of our imaginations is about as good as our intel.”

“So what have you imagined?”

Bucky squints at Steve. Is he being… is he _flirting_? Bucky decides that no, no way. Old fashioned Steve needs at least two more old fashions before he becomes bold enough to flirt. That’s about when their next round of drinks shows up, and Bucky figures, cool; they’re halfway there. “Well,” he hedges, “I figure you and the people like you’ll be expected to show up all fancy. Like nice suits, no ties.”

“That’s specific.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s standard club wear.” 

“What kind of snotty clubs do you go to?”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing into his drink. “And the omegas…” he lets his gaze wander, as if he’s thinking really hard about it. “Mm. Leashes and collars. Nothing else that’s not made of latex.” Steve is such a dork that, for a good five seconds, he thinks Bucky is being serious. Bucky doesn’t know if he’d keep on believing it or not, because he can’t help busting out into laughter. “Oh my god! I’m joking!” Steve’s instantly laughing, blushing, and insisting that he knew that. “Sure you did,”’ Bucky tells him, his face hurting a little because he’s been wearing the same fond smile for god only knows how long. He lifts his glass again for something to do. “But in all seriousness?” he says, peering through the pink tint of his drink to see Steve’s pretty face, “It’ll probably be a bunch of semi-overweight businessmen in a well-furnished and dimly-lit house, each of them trying to one-up each other with whatever half-dressed omega they’ve drugged up and brought along.”

Steve swallows, and Bucky realizes that, despite how much they’ve both been drinking, he’s just made shit real. “Yeah,” Steve agrees. “That actually sounds like it could be about right.”

“You think you can do that?” Bucky asks. “Pretend to be one of them?”

Steve averts his eyes. “I could do more things than I’m proud of,” he admits. “If I had to, to save good peoples’ lives.”

Bucky feels like he’s just fallen for Steve Rogers a little bit harder. “Shit,” he murmurs. Steve chuckles, because he’s about as drunk as Bucky is and has no idea what Bucky is cursing at besides.

“Yeah I’m a real hard ass,” Steve jokes. “What about you though?”

“Me?”

“Mm hm.” Steve drinks, peers over the lip of his glass. “You going to be okay? Going in like that? Being treated like that?”

“Steve. I was deep under for three months. I think I can handle a few hours of Bad cop/Slutty cop.”

Steve's blush spreads to his neck and it is _glorious_. Bucky wants to peel off his shirt and see how far it goes… “I just don’t want to, you know, offend you. By anything I say or do. I might…” he trails off, and Bucky can instantly tell that whatever Steve had been about to say makes him uncomfortable. 

“Might what?” Bucky smirks, “You afraid you’ll have to act mean towards me Steve?” He leans closer. “Or pervy?” When Steve drinks instead of answering, Bucky laughs. “Whatever happens, I can handle it,” he says. “I know you have some old-fashioned sensibilities or whatever, about omegas, but I’m not stupid and I’m certainly not naive. Being Hydra’s slave wasn’t exactly uneventful, if you know what I mean.”

“What?” Steve’s eyes shoot up, concern suddenly pinching a line between his brows. “What are you talking about? Bucky did somebody hurt you?”

Bucky’s taken aback by how serious Steve’s suddenly become. He swallows nervously. “No. Well I mean yeah, of course they were rough and mean but, _Steve_. You must know that… I mean you’ve gotta have expected…” he peters off, gut sinking at the shocked look in Steve’s eyes. “Steve,” he says softly. “Yeah. Okay. Stuff happened. I went into the assignment knowing it might.”

Across the table Steve is sitting there, stiff as stone, looking like a furious white knight who also might be about to cry. “They hurt you?” he asks, voice controlled. Too controlled. “Did they…” he looks up and meets Bucky’s eyes. “What exactly did they do?”

“Steve,” Bucky feels so helpless. Steve is so kind and sweet and now he’s so upset-looking, and Bucky’s made him worried for his honor or something stupid like that, and… and Bucky knew it was a bad idea to drink this much. “I’m fine,” he tells Steve, reaching across the table to put his hand on top of Steve’s own. “Can’t we just go back to talking, huh?” he asks with a smile. “I was having fun.”

“What’d they do to you Bucky?” Steve’s voice is firm. He apparently needs to know. 

Bucky curses the guy and his stupid chivalry, or whatever the hell it is. He huffs, drops Steve’s hand and leans back in his chair with his drink in hand. He takes a very big sip of said drink. He takes another. “What do you want to hear huh? That they raped me?”

“Did they?”

“No. Not really. They just touched. What they wanted when they wanted.”

Steve is frowning heavily. “That’s rape.”

“Oh grow up Steve.” Bucky tosses back the last of his drink and orders a shot for each of them before Steve can tell him not to. “Do you honestly think I didn’t know stuff like that was going to happen when I volunteered? I knew. Please don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” Steve holds his hand out over the table, imploring. “C’mere.” It takes a moment, but Bucky does lean forward and lay his hand in Steve’s. “Have you talked to anyone? A counselor at the bureau?” 

“I’m talking to you.”

Steve smiles sadly. “Not good enough.”

Bucky sighs. “Look, I know I upset you, but I really was having a good time and now I’m not and I’m trying hard not to get mad at you for this pity party you’re trying to throw me here. I. am. okay.”

“I’m not trying to—” Steve cuts off at Bucky’s raised hand. The waitress has come with their shots. 

Bucky takes them both and sets Steve’s in front of him. “What happened while I was undercover is not a big deal. Not to me. I’m fine. Now, I will promise to go see a shrink if you promise to do this shot with me and not talk about this for the rest of the night. Deal?”

Steve appears to be thinking about it. After a moment, he agrees. “Alright. Deal.” Bucky makes him clink shot glasses, and they drink.  
_

“Oh hey,” Bucky finally thinks to ask a while later, when they’ve ordered their next round. “I saw you through the window before you came in. Talking to your friends.”

Steve’s easy demeanor instantly changes. He looks grumpy again, just like when he’d first walked into the bar. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Who was the guy in the wheelchair?”

“That’s Rhodey. Or um, James Rhodes,” Steve tells him. “My old coworker.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah.” Steve scratches uncomfortably at the back of his head. “The explosion, yeah. Of the five of us, he was the most severely injured. Broke his back, had to leave the force. Doctors say he’ll never walk again so…” Steve trails off, looking downright swamped in self-hate. “It’s not exactly easy when I run into him unexpectedly like that. Sam and the guys keep in touch but it’s harder for me.”

Bucky would ask why, but he’s got a pretty good guess. “You blame yourself?” he asks.

Steve scoffs, “Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I get why you do.” Steve’s eyes shoot up. He looks surprised, as if he hadn’t expected that answer. “I’ve read all about how it went down,” Bucky tells him. “How you gave the go-ahead for entry into the building before SWAT and the bomb squad got there.”

Steve looks miserably down to his whiskey, picks it up and drinks more of it. “Yeah. I was an idiot.”

“But I also know what it’s like to have to make split-second decisions like that,” Bucky adds. “Newspaper articles and incident reports don’t cover that. They can’t. And you seem like the type to hold himself to impossible standards.” When Steve doesn’t correct him, Bucky knows he’s right. _Typical alpha_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he reaches over and rests his hand comfortingly atop Steve’s. “I’m sure none of them blame you, ya know.”

“Well if they don’t they should,” Steve spits. “I mean Gabe is dead. Rhodey’ll never work again and Clint’s been demoted to permanent desk duty. But me?” he scoffs. “I’m welcomed back to the force with open arms. Given assignments and asked to go undercover. There’s even talk I’ll be promoted to Lieutenant soon.” He looks incredulously at Bucky. “ _Lieutenant_ , can you believe that?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’ve never been there Steve. But I do know what it’s like to feel like you’re not good enough to do your job anymore. You’re allowed to feel bad about it. Just don’t kill yourself in the process.” He pokes Steve meaningfully in the shoulder. “Have _you_ seen a counselor? Sounds like you could use one.”

Steve huffs and tells him touché. “Thanks,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. He smells happy, contented, and he’s looking at Bucky like he’s something special. Bucky thinks that Steve’s blue eyes are about the prettiest things in the world when he’s looking at Bucky like that. “You’re a good guy Bucky. Better than you try to let on, I think.” He smiles and, oh boy, that’s pretty too. “I like you. A lot.”

Bucky smirks stupidly and tries to hide it in his next sip of his drink. Maybe Natasha was right, he thinks. Maybe having a thing with Steve wouldn’t be the worst idea ever. Maybe it could be fun.

-oOo-

Steve has left to go use the bathroom and Bucky is fidgeting, waiting for him to come back. He’s got two more shots sitting in front of him now, even though Steve had said no more until they get something else to eat. Bucky looks down at them and giggles. Some Alpha woman at the bar had had them sent over with a flirty message. Bucky’s not exactly sure what to tell Steve, and for some reason it’s amusing. 

“What’s this?” Bucky grins up at where Steve has suddenly reappeared. He’s looking at Bucky with a very fake frown “I thought we’d agreed on food first.”

“It’s not my fault!” Bucky defends immediately, though he’s laughing even as he says it due to Steve’s scolding look. Bucky bites his lip in thought. Steve’s scolding look is actually pretty nice. Bucky wouldn’t mind it if Steve looked at him like that while he… _Oh_. Well _that’s_ a thought. Bucky feels himself warm as the image of Steve, doing some very naughty things to him, comes unbidden. He sheepishly pushes Steve’s drink across the table to him, explaining. “A woman at the bar sent them over.”

“Oh?” Steve is graceless enough to immediately turn his head and look, and he must identify her because he turns back around with a slight frown on his face. Bucky can’t blame him; the woman really is quite striking. “Oh.” Steve repeats. “I see.” Bucky thinks that he looks cute.

“Steve Rogers,” he crows. “Are you _pouting_?”

“No!” Steve scowls and picks up his shot, tosses it back and has a gross expression on his face once he’s set it down. “Ugh,” he complains. “Your admirer has awful taste.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows and tastes his own drink. He’s pretty sure his eyes light up. “It’s like candy!” he says, shooting Steve a dirty look. “She’s got great taste!” He downs the rest of the shot, finishing with a pleased smack of his lips. “Yum.”

Steve is staring at him with a considering look, his gaze heavy on Bucky’s wet lips. He leans forward and says, “Maybe I didn’t get a good enough taste.” He gets so close that Bucky can smell the whisky he’s been drinking on his breath. 

Realization hits Bucky as the first thrill of arousal shoots through him. He licks his lips again, this time on purpose. “You want to kiss me, Steve?” he teases. “Because it looks like you’re thinking about it.”

Steve nods. “I was.”

“We might regret it,” Bucky warns. He means it to be mostly a joke, but one look at Steve shows that he doesn’t realize that.

“Yeah,” he agrees quickly, looking abashed. “Yeah you’re right. Sorry,” he chuckles but it falls flat. “Sorry.”

 _Oh_ , if that sad, guilty look on Steve’s face doesn’t make Bucky want to tackle him to the floor and give him _all the kisses_. Bucky huffs. “You say sorry too much,” he tells him. 

“M’just don’t want to be inappropriate,” Steve mumbles.

“Yeah well we’re both a little drunk now, so I think we gave up on ‘appropriate’ a while ago. Besides, didn’t we agree that we were drinking to get drunk? What’s the big deal?” 

Steve huffs, rubs at the back of his neck. Bucky’s come to realize that it’s something Steve does when he’s feeling awkward or self-conscious. “I shouldn’t have you here like this,” he argues. “It doesn’t look right and you’re—”

“If you say anything about designation right now I will throw this on you,” Bucky says, fingering the remnants of his last vodka-cranberry menacingly. “You can save your pseudo chivalristic bullshit Steve.”

“Chivalristic isn’t a word…”

Bucky stabs his finger at him. “You kiss me and stop being such an antique. I’m a grown ass man and I’m allowed to kiss you, _in public_ , if I want. Got it?”

Steve looks totally torn for a moment. It gives Bucky the chance to take another good, long look at his handsome face. God, he thinks, any man as good looking as Steve Rogers should not be allowed to do police work. It’s just unfair. “Yeah,” Steve finally says, coming closer. “Yeah I think I got it.” 

Bucky’s pulse thrills, and he leans in accommodatingly. Steve holds him at his shoulder, at the curve of his jaw, and _oh_ he’s so gentle with his big hands. So obviously restrained and careful. Steve closes the space between them, pressing his soft lips to Bucky’s. It feels like such a relief, and Bucky groans before they’ve even done anything. This makes Steve chuckle and Bucky can practically feel the deep reverberations coming from his throat. Bucky deepens the kiss, slanting his lips and asking for more. Steve grants it, one hand migrating around to thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky _loves_ having his hair played with, and he makes an emphatic sound of approval so that Steve knows he’s done good. He pulls Steve closer against him and moans again when Steve’s tongue slips into his mouth. He’s gentle with that, too, teasing and coaxing Bucky to venture out just enough, before he’s rushing back and claiming his mouth all over again. And when Bucky gets really worked up? He _BITES_. _God_ , the man knows how to kiss. Bucky hadn’t thought he would, had thought he seemed too virginal. 

When they part they’re both breathing faster and Steve rubs his nose against Bucky’s neck, inhaling him. “You smell so damned good,” he says. Bucky groans, would downright _purr_ if they weren’t in such a public place. He lets his hand migrate down Steve’s side and to his hip, feeling all the contours of his body under his shirt. He feels good and Bucky wants _more_. 

“Mmh,” Bucky says, “You too. Wanna rub my face on you.” 

Steve gasps, “Oh.” His eyes shut as Bucky begins kissing at his jaw again, his hand slipping ever lower to knead over the top of his thigh. “Oh Bucky. I think we need to stop.”

“We need to go upstairs.” Bucky corrects, pulling back an inch. He locks eyes with Steve. “You want to do that?”

It’s only a second that Steve hesitates, and really, Bucky doesn’t even count it because of all the sex that’s pouring off of him; the _want_. It’s near-tangible and it makes Bucky want to climb him like a tree. “Yeah,” Steve winds up saying, looking just as eager and aroused as Bucky feels. He stands up and takes Bucky’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers. “Yeah,” he repeats. “Come on.”

On the way out he calls over to the bartender, tells her to put everything on his tab.

-oOo-


	6. Bucky: Natural Instincts

Steve gets the door to his apartment open, but it’s Bucky who slams it shut. He reaches behind himself and manages to blindly flick the deadbolt closed. He’s grinning like a fool, drunk and eager and turned-on as fuck. He takes his jacket and shirt off and tosses them to the floor, kicking off his shoes impatiently as well. One of them winds up halfway to the kitchen, but he doesn’t care.

“Messy,” Steve chides with a smirk. He steps close and cups Bucky’s jaw in his hand. “Want to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Can I?”

Bucky growls. “I don’t know, _can_ you?” When Steve looks confused, Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs him by the front of his shirt, yanks him in and slots their mouths together, kissing him hard. Steve gasps into it but lets himself be taken, crowding closer and, after a too-long moment, daring to place his hands gently at Bucky’s waist. He strokes languidly with his thumbs at his hipbones. And disappointingly, after a minute the kiss has become something sweet and coaxing, and Steve’s hands haven’t made any progress either. This is not at all the passionate affair Bucky had come up here hoping for. Maybe he’d have more patience for it if he were sober, but he’s not and frankly, Bucky’s not in the mood to wait to be given what he wants. Steve’s mouth is still moving at a glacial pace when Bucky finally groans into the kiss and pulls away. He leans back against the door and gives Steve a long-suffering look. “You’re a polite guy, Steve. Doesn’t mean you have to be polite in the bedroom too. In fact, I’d advise against it.”

Steve cants his head. “What would you advise then?”

“You’re too damned gentle.” Bucky reaches up and traces the edges of Steve’s temple, his cheekbone. “Didn’t we say we were meeting tonight to get more comfortable with our covers?”

Steve snorts. “You think I’ve got you up here for work?”

“Oh yeah.” Bucky leans in and ghosts a breath against Steve’s lips. “For work. Research. Practice.” His eyes glint as he says that last, and he tells Steve, “You need to be confident, dominant. The kind of guy who takes what he wants without asking.” 

Steve frowns. “That’s not… I mean that’s not right for me to treat you like that.”

Bucky would worry that he’s just turned Steve off, except for that he can tell by his scent that he’s done no such thing. Steve smells worried and aroused. Bucky pulls the man against him and bends to kiss and suck along the side of his neck. “Such a gentleman,” he murmurs between kisses. “Tell me Steve, how many omegas have you even slept with?” Beneath his hand, Bucky can feel the slight tremor that moves through the alpha’s body.

“Um…” Steve seems embarrassed. “I’ve only ever been with a couple of people Buck. None of ‘em were omega.”

Bucky stops kissing Steve’s neck, pulls back and sees the blush that’s spread over his face. “Really?” He chuckles. “That’s… Hey that’s fine.” He pets at the short hairs at the side of Steve’s head. “Let me clue you into a little something yeah? We _like_ being handled, controlled, _taken_.”

“Even you?” Steve asks incredulously. “I would’ve thought—”

“Everyday life is different,” Bucky says, cutting him off. “But in the bedroom? Hell yes.” He pokes Steve’s chest. “And since we’re doing this for ‘ _work purposes_ ’, you should keep in mind that Dr. Steven Grant, _your_ alias, is supposed to be all about control.” He leans in and gives a sharp nip to Steve’s ear. “So let yourself go, and control me. I know you want to.”

Steve’s scent _soars_. And Bucky knows before he even moves a muscle that he’s gotten to him. It puts a smug smirk on his face—that is until Steve’s hand sweeps up and conforms to Bucky’s neck in a firm grip. He’s growling from somewhere low in his throat, and his hips shoot forward to grind their clothed erections together. Bucky looses a filthy moan, pushing back eagerly into Steve as he feels a rush of slick come out of him. Steve keeps his hand just where he has it and uses it to hold Bucky still as he takes his mouth in a fierce kiss— _take_ being the operative word.

“Mmph.” Bucky groans into it, breathing harshly through his nose and tangling the one hand he has into the back of Steve’s shirt. His little tugs on the fabric there become more insistent pulls when Steve’s kisses move down to his neck. Bucky tips his head back and whines, tugging again and saying, “Take your shirt off. _Steve_. Clothes, off.”

Steve growls again but seems to agree because he presses Bucky firmly against the door—a clear order to remain where he is—and takes a step back so that he can remove his own clothes. Bucky pants as he finally gets to see just how beautiful Steve Rogers actually is underneath all those clothes—the answer is _quite_. His muscles alone are enough to get a guy dripping, but Steve has his pretty face, gorgeous blue eyes, and thick, knotted cock to add to the picture. He’s so pretty it’s overwhelming, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever slept with someone as attractive as this man. He’s certainly never wanted someone so badly. His mouth waters with the want he feels, and he’s dropping to his knees without even thinking about it.

Steve sees this and chuckles. “Oh no.” He hauls Bucky back up, ignoring the plaintive whine he receives. “I’ll be doing that,” he husks into Bucky’s ear. Bucky assumes he’s kidding, that is until large, warm hands make quick work of his belt. “Get naked and get on my bed,” Steve orders him. Bucky doesn’t have to be told twice. 

In Steve’s bedroom he gets onto the bed on all fours—threes, actually—presenting without having to be told. He _wants_ this. So badly. It’s been a long time for him. By the time Steve pads loftily into the room, Bucky is humping his hips back on empty air. Steve’s rejected Bucky’s move to suck him off, so Bucky’s fully expecting the next thing he feels to be the alpha’s cockhead against his hole (and that’s fine, he’s _sopping_ ). He’s taken aback then, when Steve’s big hands grab his hips and flip him over, bouncing him onto his back on the bed. Steve yanks him towards the edge and spreads his legs, getting down on his own knees in the process. Bucky feels his breath catch in his throat at how close Steve’s face is to his cock. He can’t be… He isn’t—

 _Oh_ , but he is. Bucky’s eyes flare wide in shock as Steve dips down to lick over the tip of his dick. He convulses, knows that he’d be smashed against Steve’s face if he weren’t holding him down right now. “Steve,” he slurs, overwhelmed by the sight of an alpha, an _alpha_ , between his thighs. Like this. “Steve, please, please.” 

Steve leers up at him. “You want it baby? Want me to suck on that sweet omega prick?”

“Ugh.” Bucky moans. His eyes must roll into the back of his head. Who’d have ever thought? Steve Rogers far-gone enough to talk dirty. “Yeah,” he groans. “Please Stevie, no one’s ever…” He stops talking at the feeling of Steve’s fingernails digging punishingly into his hips. Bucky whimpers. 

“What do you mean ‘no one’s ever’?” Steve parrots back to him. He sounds indignant.

“Alphas don’t do that,” Bucky throws out, annoyed that he has to be speaking at all when he could already have Steve’s mouth on his cock. He makes abortive little thrusts into Steve’s grip to get that point across. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Steve growls. He dives down and takes Bucky’s cock into his mouth. It isn’t big—no omega’s is—so he takes it all the way to the hilt with ease. 

Bucky moans like a whore at the sensation. He can feel the head hitting the back of Steve’s throat, his tongue sitting underneath. “Holy—” Steve pulls back and suckles, brings one hand down to fondle Bucky’s balls and press against his slick perineum. Still, he’s sucking, bobbing down on Bucky like he actually enjoys it. “Fuck!” Bucky reaches down and tangles his fingers in Steve’s hair, pulling until he gets the warning growl he’s looking for. “Alpha,” he cries, and fuck, Bucky must be gone for it too because that’s _not_ something he just calls out to any-old-body in bed. “Let me, let me.”

Steve pops off. “Let you do what, sweetness?”

 _God. Who even says that?_ Bucky clenches his eyes shut, hips still working fruitlessly. “Take your hands off me,” he grits. “Lemme fuck your mouth.” Steve chuckles darkly but he does let go of Bucky’s hip. His hands both go to somewhere unimportant in the bedsheets. The loss of pressure from behind Bucky’s balls is regrettable, but he soon finds that being able to fuck into Steve’s mouth like it’s somebody’s soft, wet cunt more than makes up for it. “Oh, m’god,” he slurs, hardly able to punch breath out to say it when he’s so focused on getting his cock in and out of Steve’s mouth as fast as he can. Steve is being a very good sport, keeping his lips closed firmly around him and rubbing with his tongue when he gets the chance on the upstroke. Bucky’s hand gets tighter in Steve’s hair, until he’s using it for more leverage to fuck even harder into Steve’s face. Steve groans at it and the reverberations go straight to the base of Bucky’s spine. “Oh my god,” he keens. “Steve, Steve I’m gonna…” He gasps, back arching off the bed as he spills over and releases into Steve’s mouth.

Omegas come easily and many times, and Bucky's no exception. He’s not even down from the wave of his first orgasm when the bed dips, Steve’s weight coming up to join him. He pushes Bucky’s lax body back onto the middle of the bed and blankets him with his own body. Hot, peppered kisses rain down on him as Bucky recovers from his orgasm, regains his senses. He makes small, pleased noises at the feeling of Steve’s lips and tongue on his neck, over his collar bones, between his pecs and across… 

He inhales, tense at the feeling of Steve’s mouth where it’s now latched onto the skin over by his metal stump. Bucky squirms ineffectively under Steve’s weight. “Don’t,” he grunts, not happy when Steve ignores him. “Steve, don’t.”

Steve glances up. “Don’t? Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch me there,” Bucky says uncomfortably. “My scars, please. Don’t kiss them.”

Steve freezes and Bucky _hates_ the way his expression bleeds from surprise, to sorrow, to righteous indignation. “And why not?” he growls.

For once, Bucky growls right back—it’s nothing but a scrap of a thing next to the sound an alpha like Steve can put out, but Bucky figures it does the trick. “They’re ugly,” he says. “Don’t want you to— _ah!_ ”

He’s unable to finish because Steve’s abusive arms have flipped him over to his stomach faster than he can struggle away. Steve yanks him back against his chest until the both of them are nearly on their sides. He curls one hand around his throat and uses the other to keep Bucky’s arm pinned to his side. “Don’t call yourself ugly,” he tells him, voice like steel. If they weren’t currently naked in a bed together, Steve still peppering kisses across his skin, Bucky would think he was angry at him. Behind, the wet warmth of his mouth finds Bucky’s scars again and he licks and sucks them with even more vigor than before, as if he’s trying to make a point. “They’re fucking beautiful. Sexy as hell.”

Bucky groans and stuffs his face into the bedcovers, feeling himself burning up with self-consciousness and lust. Between his legs, he’s got what he thinks has got to be a shame boner, and Steve is still licking over the bumpy skin of his shoulder blade like it’s an erogenous zone. Bizarrely, it’s kind of starting to seem like it _is_. Bucky’s hole is leaking more than ever, leastways. “Fuck Steve, how can you think… shit… ugh whatever, just get on with it.” That must be all the supplication that Steve is looking for, because he rewards Bucky by releasing his arm and reaching down to instead finger at the crack of his ass. Bucky _mewls_. “Ah yeah, mmm. Put it in me.”

Steve pets his asshole with his thumb, leans close to his ear and asks, “Put _what_ in you?”

“Argh! Bucky fucks against the bed in frustration. “You know what!” 

“Tell me,” Steve insists, his breath burning hot and his thumb _almost_ where Bucky wants it to be. “Tell me, Omega.”

Bucky jerks in Steve’s arms and practically melts back against him, belly tightening at hearing somebody call him omega in _that_ way; like he’s theirs. “Want your fingers,” he whines. “Your cock.”

“Good boy.” 

_Oh my god_. Bucky nearly dissolves into the sheets. 

“You can have both.” Steve’s thumb dips into him and tugs at his rim. Then he replaces it with two of his fingers and thrusts them in. Bucky cries out at the feeling, his body welcoming the intrusion. “Let’s see…” Steve murmurs, fingers searching. They curve inside of Bucky’s body and he jolts when they graze his prostate. Something resembling a shout leaves him as Steve proceeds to rub firmly over that spot. He hums darkly. “There it is. Look so pretty squirming on my fingers.”

Bucky doesn’t have the wherewithal to warn Steve. He comes easily into the bedsheets, sticky and hot. Steve doesn’t say anything but he must be able to tell, because he withdraws his fingers and pets gently at Bucky’s hip. “Gonna fuck you baby.”

Bucky says “Guh” into the bed and pushes his ass back what little bit he can in offering, making Steve snort behind him. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. He hitches his hand under Bucky’s leg and draws it forward, his cock coming to rest warm and heavy against Bucky’s exposed crack. He moves his hips in little motions, rubbing himself in the slick that’s absolutely drenching Bucky’s backside. “So wet Buck,” he whispers. Then he puts the blunt head of his cock right against him and pushes.

Bucky’s body parts for him, allowing him in with nothing more than a rush of slick and a filthy moan. Steve is big, the swell of his half-blown knot even bigger. It fills him so good, pressing on his insides and rubbing against his prostate and glands. It makes Bucky want to cry. He’s getting exactly what he needs. “Steve,” he huffs, “Oh, move. Fucking _move!_ ”

Steve’s hand is instantly on the back of his neck, pushing his face into sheets in domination. He hunches close and hisses, “Ask. Nicely.”

Bucky whimpers. “Please Alpha. F-fuck me.”

Steve licks up the back of his neck and Bucky feels the sharp pinch of teeth there. “So sweet.”

Bucky cries out as Steve moves within him, dragging his cock in and out in punishingly slow thrusts. Bucky tries to hump back against him to make him go faster, but it’s of little use. All he can do is lay there and wait until the moment when Steve decides to really start to move, the pace fast but smooth. It’s wonderful. All Bucky can do—all he _wants_ to do—is lay there and cry out and grip the sheets and _take_ it. Steve is crowded against him, his entire body sealed against the back of Bucky’s and he’s overwhelmed by the man; by his size, his dominance, his breath and his cock and his scent. _God_ , Bucky’s awash in his scent. It makes him crave so much more. Delirious in the pleasure, he tosses his head to the side and pants, “Bite me, bite me.”

Steve must hear him begging to be marked, must like it, because he tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair and yanks his head even further to the side, baring his neck fully. He buries his face there, nosing and licking over Bucky’s swollen scent gland. It’s marred by the scar tissue of a bonding mark, but if Steve notices he doesn’t say anything. He scrapes his teeth over the sensitive flesh, groaning at the rush of fragrant omega scent that erupts in response. “Fuck, Bucky. Smell so fucking good.” He bites down hard enough to hurt, growling something that sounds very much like “mine” along the way. Bucky cries out as he shoots into another orgasm. Steve fucks him through it, panting heavier than before and his hips losing their coordination. “Bucky,” he gasps out, “Bucky can I knot you?”

Bucky’s still too awash in sensation to say anything other than, “Please.” But in his mind he’s reeling. Nobody has ever asked permission for that before. It makes it all the sweeter when Steve forces himself in, knot popping past his rim. “Oh!” Bucky thrashes, pleased beyond measure when Steve growls and holds him still. His knot is in him for only seconds before it’s fully-blown and Bucky’s body is locking down on it. He sobs into the bed with how good it feels, body already ramping up for the sweet sort of climax that only being tied can bring. Steve isn’t any more verbal than Bucky at this point, his sounds reduced to grunts and snarls as he fucks into their tie, his knot rubbing him and filling him and—Bucky spasms—bringing forth the strongest and most unbearable orgasm of the night. He lets loose and WAILS, all sense of anything but the pleasure ripping through his body forgotten. Whatever this does for Steve is inconsequential when Bucky’s feeling so blissed out, but seconds later he knows _exactly_ what it does for Steve because the alpha freezes and grunts loudly, shooting his load inside of him in long, tangible pulses. They collapse. 

It takes a long time after that for Bucky to stop shivering. Every once in a while Steve’s knot will pulse and release a fresh wave of semen and Bucky will be triggered into a tiny orgasm that takes his breath away and makes him keen anew. Steve knows what it’s doing to him. He shushes his cries and pulls him back to rest against his sweaty chest while he finishes riding out the one long, drawn-out alpha orgasm he’ll get to experience that night.

By the time it’s over and they’re simply lying there waiting for Steve’s knot to go down, Bucky’s already fallen asleep.

-oOo-


	7. Steve: A Kinky Mission

“Mmph. Hello?”

“… _Hi. I’m guessing this is Steve?_ ”

“Mmhmm.”

“ _Steve, this is Natasha_.”

“Who?”

“ _Natasha Romanov. Is Bucky there with you?_ ”

Steve rubs his face, feeling too stupid to be awake. He’s standing next to his bed, sleepy, naked and confused as his mind tries to boot up and make sense of why Agent Romanov has called his phone at seven AM on a Sunday morning. He pulls the phone down from his ear for a second and sees that it’s an iPhone in a blue case. “Oh,” he mutters.

The answer is that it’s not Steve’s phone she’s called—it’s Bucky’s. Steve is stuttering awkwardly at Natasha when Bucky stirs in the bed and turns over to blink at him. “Wassat?” he slurs, rubbing his eyes.

Steve cringes. “Shoot,” he says into the phone. “Ah, hang on Natasha, he’s actually right here. He’s… _here_ ,” Steve hastily hands the phone to Bucky, apology written all over his face. “Sorry!” he whispers. “We have the same ringtone so I thought—”

“Hey Nat,” Bucky mumbles into the phone. “How are you? Thank you _so much_ for calling me when I’m pretty sure you know exactly where I am.”

Steve gapes. 

“No, yeah I get it.” Bucky is smiling sarcastically as he speaks to Natasha. “Yep. Thank you. I’ll be paying you back for that one. Bye.” He hangs up and looks over at Steve. “Sorry about that.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Sorry?” _About what?_ He wants to say. He’s the one who answered Bucky’s phone, after all. But he shrugs and sits back down on the bed instead. He leans over and picks up a questionably-old glass of water from his nightstand. “I mean, no need to apologize. What’d she say?” He sips some of the water.

There’s a brief pause, during which Steve peeks over his shoulder and finds that Bucky’s been staring at his naked back, before Bucky shakes himself and answers, “Oh, uh she was just ribbing me about being here. You know, since I slept with you.”

Steve chokes, some of the water dribbling past his lips. He wipes the back of his hand hastily across his chin. “Excuse me, what?” The water gets set aside and he lays back down in the bed facing Bucky. “She _knows_? How would she know?” His inner traditionalist is cringing at the idea of someone knowing that he's slept with an omega that isn't his own.

Bucky grimaces. “She’s my best friend. She knows I’ve had the hots for you.” He shrugs. “I’m sure when she heard your voice on the end of _my_ phone—at seven o clock on a Sunday—she put two and two together.”

Steve has a hard time getting past one part of that statement. He meets Bucky’s eyes with a mischievous expression. “You’ve had the hots for me?” he asks. “For how long?” 

Bucky blows air out his lips. “Shut up Steve.”

Steve cackles, but falls down to lay back on the bed. “Ugh,” he sighs. “Last night was great.” He’s staring at the ceiling, not brave enough to look over and see what Bucky’s expression is, but he hopes it’s one of agreement.

“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly. “Yeah it was.”

This gives Steve the courage to look over. Bucky’s looking at him warmly. “So…” he hedges, “you’re not embarrassed or anything. You don’t think it was a mistake?” Bucky raises an eyebrow at him and Steve feels the need to clarify, “’I mean we are working together, and we were pretty drunk.”

Bucky makes a _'psh'_ sound between his teeth. “None of that is a problem for me. I mean unless it is for you. The only thing we have to be embarrassed about is how goddamned irresponsible we were.” He eyes Steve. “We didn’t use protection.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “We… I didn’t?” He glances down to his naked lower half, as if the sight of his limp cock is supposed to provide some magical answer for him. It doesn’t, but he still has no memory of having used a condom last night. “Oh shit! We didn’t.” He looks fearfully at Bucky. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m on birth control, so no need to worry about that.”

Steve gapes, feeling like a horrible excuse for an adult because he hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh. That’s good,” he manages. “I ah… well you’ll have to take my word for it, but I’m clean.”

“You sure?” 

Steve blushes. “Um, yeah actually. Positive. I haven’t been with anybody in a while.” _A while_ is actually a euphemism for _a little over six years_ , but Steve can’t bring himself to tell Bucky that. Embarrassment is burning his cheeks but he forces himself to ask, “You enjoyed yourself right? I mean, it felt good?” He wants to smack himself as soon as the words leave his mouth but Bucky answers too quickly for that.

“Are you kidding me? Of course it was great.”

“Oh.” Steve smiles. “Good. I ah, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure you didn’t forget how to do it?” Bucky teases.

If it’s possible, Steve blushes even harder. He’s staring down at the sheets now, unable to meet Bucky’s eyes. “Don’t have to make fun of me,” he mumbles. “Like I said before I’ve never been with an omega, so I just wanted to check.”

Perhaps Bucky notices how embarrassed this conversation is making him, because he sobers and sidles up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you’re right. I’m sorry.” 

Steve shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the gesture is weak and unconvincing. 

“You don’t have to feel self-conscious,” Bucky says. “I haven’t been with anybody in a long time either.”

That has Steve looking up. “Since your separation?” he guesses.

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs, and the tables flip. Now he’s the one looking vulnerable and uneasy, and Steve just wants to hug him and comfort him and never let go. “After I lost my arm two years ago… Well, I was only with Brock after that, obviously. And he um, he wasn’t exactly what you’d call reassuring about my new… _looks_.”

Steve is instantly tense. “What a prick.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods. “He never outright said that I was ugly, or that nobody else would want to be with me, but the message was there.” Bucky’s eyes flick up, filled with uncertainty. “I haven’t had the confidence to be with anybody else since then. Not until now.”

Steve feels like his heart might burst open for this man in front of him. Oddly enough, he thinks that he’d be fine with that, if it’d make Bucky feel better. “Hey,” he says, bringing a careful hand to Bucky’s temple. He strokes his thumb over the skin there. “I don’t know if you have a good grasp on this yet or not, but you’re gorgeous. And you have a real shit of an ex-husband.” Bucky’s eyes light up and he’s smiling, and it makes Steve feel like he’s just saved the guy’s puppy. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “The thought has occurred.”

Steve shakes his head, mourning. “Wish I didn’t have to work with him. Cause then I could punch him for you.”

Bucky outright laughs at that. “That makes two of us. And hey,” he winks, “I can punch him myself.”

Steve draws him in for a kiss. It’s sweet and light, just a brushing of lips before Steve pulls himself away to get up and grab some clothes. He goes to his dresser and pulls out a plain tee shirt and some sweatpants. It’s as he’s shrugging the pants on that he hears Bucky get out of the bed. Seconds later a warm hand is smoothing over his back. 

“Shrapnel?” Bucky asks softly.

Steve goes stiff, his hands clutching the tee shirt tightly. He knows that Bucky is staring at the newly-formed scars. They’re distinctive, an anyone in law enforcement would probably know what’d caused them. “Yeah,” he grunts. “From the bomb.” For once, Steve is grateful that the person he’s explaining it to already knows what happened. He’s not in the mood to retell the story of how he got his team blown all to hell. Bucky must be able to sense his mood, because he removes his hand and says nothing more. Steve is grateful again.

Steve puts his tee shirt on and Bucky dresses in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before. There’s a long pause, before Bucky looks him in the eye and says, “It sucks. Having a physical reminder of something you’d rather forget.”

He says it like he knows from personal experience and Steve raises an eyebrow. Bucky points to his neck, right where the scar tissue of his mating bite is. _Oh_ , Steve thinks, realizing that Bucky wasn’t talking about his arm. “Brock, I assume.”

“Mmhm.” Bucky purses his lips. “The worst part of it is that everyone always assumes that it’s a mutual decision, right? And so the people in my life who’ve met Brock and know what a jerk he is, they look at me sideways. Like I’m an idiot for allowing it.”

Steve stares, feeling confused. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘everyone assumes it’s mutual’? Wasn’t it?” Bucky’s only answer is to stare at him like he’s dense, and Steve feels his confusion bleed over into shock, and then outrage. “He… he _forced_ a bond on you?!”

“It was his way of trying to make me stay, I guess.” Bucky frowns. “I wouldn’t agree to have kids so he had to do something.”

“Bucky. That is unacceptable.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. It got me to stick around for almost another whole year though.”

“Because you were physiologically tied to him, against your will!” Steve goes to Bucky and places his hands on his shoulders. “What he did to you? That’s illegal. It’s assault.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Sergeant SVU. I know that.”

“Did you ever press charges?”

Bucky pulls himself back so that Steve’s no longer touching him. “There was no point. It would’ve been a dead-end case of he said/he said with no evidence either way. And Brock’s legal expenses would’ve just come out of our shared bank account anyway.”

Steve frowns heavily, even though he’s heard this exact same argument time and again when similar cases come through the precinct. “Shit Buck,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s really not a big deal. Doesn’t bother me anymore,” Bucky excuses, though his expression tells a different story. “Withdrawal period’s come and gone. My bond to Brock Rumlow is dead.” He starts walking towards the bedroom door, opens it and heads towards the living room. “Now come out here and show me what you’re making for breakfast. I’ve got a hangover the size of Manhattan.” 

.oOo.

“You nervous about tomorrow?”

Bucky closes the fridge and comes back to the couch where Steve is sitting. With only one hand, he’s managing to hold two beer bottles by the necks, but only just. He drops Steve’s onto the couch cushion for him to take, and Steve does. “Yes,” he answers. “Always. I don’t think I couldn’t be, going into an op like this.”

That answer makes Steve feel better, because he’s very nervous about tomorrow. “A professional slave like you?” he jokes, but it falls flat.

Bucky gives him a _look_. “Seeing terrible things doesn’t make them less terrible. Not to me at least.”

“Sorry.” Steve glances down at his unopened beer and doesn’t feel motivated enough to pop the cap off it. He sets it onto the coffee table instead. “Look,” he says, “It’s late. I should go home.” He stands, but Bucky’s finger in his belt loop stops him from stepping away.

“Wait,” he says. “I want you to stay.”

Steve feels uncomfortable. He feels like this thing that he’s been playing at all week with Bucky has been fun but misdirected. He feels like he’s chosen the wrong outlet for his nerves. He should’ve taken up smoking instead, and saved Bucky for something special. Something meaningful. It’s a regret, but Steve really has no clue how to fix that now. He removes Bucky’s hand from his jeans. Better to just bow out. “I should go,” he repeats. “Natasha won’t want to come home to… you know.” _The sound of us vigorously fucking._ It’s what they’ve been doing all week. 

“She’s not coming home tonight,” Bucky says, standing up and pulling Steve closer. “She’s with Darcy. Took her to a fancy room at the St. Regis. You know: champagne and strawberries and really prettily-wrapped intentions.” Steve frowns, but Bucky knows his opinion on Natasha seeing Darcy and cuts him off. “She’s an adult, Steve.”

“She’s a victim. She’s vulnerable. Natasha should give her more time before she—”

Bucky silences him with a kiss. When he pulls back he speaks close to Steve’s lips and tells him. “We're stronger than you give us credit for," he says, obviously referring to his and Darcy's shared status as omegas. "And we can decide when and if we want to consent to sex."

"I know that, I just—"

"My point is: we’re alone tonight, we have the place to ourselves, and I’d really like for you to stay.” 

Steve sighs. In all honesty he still feels like the responsible thing for him to do is to head home and not see Bucky again until tomorrow, when it’s for work. But he asks Bucky anyway, “If I did stay, what did you have in mind?”

Bucky’s face splits in a grin. “Follow me. I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to show you.”

Once they’re actually in Bucky’s bedroom, door closed and lights lowered, Bucky seems to lose some of his confidence. He tells Steve to sit on his bed and goes over to his dresser. He hesitates, hand on the pull to the top drawer, and looks warily at Steve. “This isn’t like, a mandatory thing for me or anything,” he says. “If you’re not into it I get it. I know you’re not super-experienced.”

Steve nearly cringes, but manages to hold it back. He’d admitted to Bucky the other day that not only has he not been with anyone in six years, but that he’s only ever been with two people, period. “What?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant about it. “Are you afraid to show me your sex drawer?” Bucky’s eyes widen a little and Steve actually does chuckle then. “I can take it Buck. What’ve you got in there, huh? A bright pink dildo?” He leans back on his arms on the bed, feeling excited at the prospect of seeing all the dirty toys Bucky touches himself with when he’s alone. “Show me.”

Bucky doesn’t smile, which makes Steve realize that he’s assumed too little. “Like I said, if you’re not into it…” He opens the drawer and the first thing he pulls out is a long, wide strip of leather. 

Steve stiffens. “Bucky, that’s a collar.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s looking at him apprehensively. He looks like he wants to be excited but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about playing, given the circumstances of the case or… you know, just personal preference.”

Steve swallows, his pants already feeling a little tight. “‘Playing,’” he repeats. “Is that…” he nods forward. “Does that involve collars?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Among other things.” 

“Other things?” 

Slowly, Bucky reaches into the drawer and pulls out ‘other things’. He shows them to him one by one, then puts them back in the drawer. But the collar he keeps in hand. 

“Oh.” Steve nods, even as he’s panicking that his twitchy silence could be giving Bucky the wrong impression. What Bucky’s just shown him isn’t so much _beginner’s bondage kit_ as it is _hard limit, subspace and aftercare_ “And when you ‘play’,” Steve asks carefully, “Do you um, are you the one who wears the collar or—”

“Yes.” Bucky’s eyes are dark and absolutely focused on Steve. He’s as vulnerable as Steve’s ever seen him. “Look I can put it back if you don’t—”

“Don’t put it back,” Steve blurts, surprising himself not with the fact that he wants to see the collar around Bucky’s throat, but rather with how _badly_ he wants it. It really does seem like the best idea in the world right now. And the fact that Bucky would _let_ him? That’s the best part. He sits ups straighter and gestures for Bucky to step over to the bed. “Come here,” he says. After a beat Bucky does, and Steve feels breathless with want. “On your knees,” he says quietly, pointing. “Right here.”

Bucky does as he’s told, dropping to his knees right between Steve’s spread thighs. He looks up at Steve with something akin to a worshipful expression. “You really want to?” he asks. “I mean you’re so ungodly _nice_. And well, old-fashioned. I just assumed you wouldn’t want—”

“Shh,” Steve hushes him, something like a smirk playing on his lips. “It’s rude to assume Buck.” Bucky’s lips snap shut like it’s his mission in life to never assume again, and satisfaction zips through Steve at the obvious show of obedience. So, he thinks, this is it. Bucky’s into being dominated, and not just casually-into it. He’s got a drawer. He’s drawer-into it. It shouldn’t really come as a surprise, not given some of the things that Bucky said to Steve that first night together, and the nights since. Steve takes a deep breath and runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, angling his face to look up at him. Slowly, not breaking that eye contact, he reaches down and takes the collar from Bucky’s fingers. He brings the leather up to Bucky’s neck, wraps it around and buckles it closed. He slides the buckle around to the back, so that all that faces him is smooth leather and that long, presented neck. He sits back, a sort of exhilaration taking hold as he realizes that he. can do. whatever. he wants. The possibilities make his fingers tingle, but Steve forces himself to move slowly. Bucky’s just revealed something very private about himself, and Steve is going to give him sooo much pleasure for it. “Do you have a safeword?” he asks quietly.

Bucky nods. “Red.”

“Traffic light system then?”

“Stevie,” Bucky grins. “Not so innocent after all huh?”

Steve looks at him sternly, which shuts him up well-enough. “Oh, I am,” he says. He reaches for his fly and flips the button loose, pulls down the zipper. “But not for long.” One hand goes to the top of Bucky’s head and he uses the other to pull himself out of his briefs. “I’m going to defile myself…” He pulls Bucky’s head towards his cock, which by this point is thickening, and finishes, “…with you.”

Bucky moans loudly and surges forward.

.oOo.

By the time the evening of Sitwell’s party rolls around, Steve has had Bucky no less than six times. Four times in Steve’s apartment, once at Bucky and Natasha’s apartment, and once (and this one had been Steve’s idea because he really wasn’t above being creative when it came to assholes like Brock Rumlow) in Brock’s condo. Bucky had had the keys and insisted that since the final divorce papers weren’t yet signed, they weren’t technically breaking the law. So they’d snuck in when they knew Brock was at work, and left the sheets stinking of the two of them.

Now it’s seven o’clock, three hours until they’re due to arrive at the party, and they’re at the FBI field office with the rest of their team. They’ve been given a private room to get dressed in. Steve’s attire for the evening is a casual black suit. Bucky’s been given a strategically-shredded black tank and leather pants that look, well, ridiculous. 

Steve fiddles ineffectively with one of his dress shirt’s cufflinks, the effort to fasten it becoming completely derailed when he looks up and sees Bucky reach over his back and pull off his tee-shirt one-handed. Steve swallows, watching intently as Bucky removes the rest of his street clothes, folding everything and putting it in a duffle that he’s brought. He takes something small out of the duffle’s pocket and turns around to face Steve with it clenched in his hand. Steve raises an eyebrow at Bucky’s unabashed nudity. “You know there isn’t a lock on that door over there. Anybody could just walk in. What would they think?” He’s teasing, and Bucky’s smirk shows that he knows it.

“You know that’s a good point,” he agrees. He lets his hand open and a scrap of fabric tumbles out and dangles from his index finger. He’s holding a pair of what look like women’s panties. “I supposed they’d think I’m a gigantic slut.” He shrugs as if that means absolutely nothing to him. “Guess that would make me the hottest topic at the water cooler for the next year or so.” He bends to put the panties on, and Steve gapes. Once Bucky’s pulled them all the way on and adjusted himself—it’s a tight fit—he gives Steve a purposeful look. “Well Dr. Grant? How do I look?”

Steve doesn’t make much of an effort to answer. He’s still busy staring at the way Bucky’s junk is sitting snug behind black lace, thank you very much. It is the sexiest thing he’s seen in a long time, and he knows exactly what he’ll be fantasizing about the next time an opportunity to jerk off presents itself. When he remains silent too long and Bucky snaps his fingers— _“Hey: Earth to Steve?”_ —Steve snaps out of it and meets his eyes again. He licks his lips nervously. “Somehow I don’t think the FBI gave you those to wear.”

Bucky laughs and steps close to Steve, running his hand over the crest of his thigh where skin meets lace. “Naw,” he says. “FBI’s a bunch of prudes. I brought these from my own personal collection.”

Steve feels like his pulse skips a beat. “Bucky?” he asks slowly. “Are you trying to tell me that you have a personal collection of women’s underwear?”

“Not exactly. But I do have a collection of other special clothes.” Bucky grins. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Steve growls and wraps his hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, hauling him in for a bruising kiss. Bucky grunts, clearly surprised, but he’s quick to melt into it, filthy moan leaving him when Steve uses his other hand to squeeze his ass. When Steve pulls away, he practically snarls, “What are you trying to do to me?”

“What’s the matter?” Bucky simpers. “Don’t you like my panties?”

Fucking hell. Steve has to force himself to let go of Bucky and take a step back. Flirting is fun, but they just don’t have time for all the sorts of things Bucky’s making him want to do. “Put your damned pants on,” he croaks, turning around to grab his blazer and shrug it on.

Bucky just chuckles. “Yes Sir.”

.oOo.

They join the rest of the team out in the office. Coulson’s there with Natasha, Brock, and two other men who are introduced as SA Morita and SSA Odinson. Brock is wearing a plain black suit and looking quite grumpy. He’s been assigned as Steve and Bucky’s driver for the night. Steve kind of wants to ask what genius made that call, but given that said ‘genius’ might be Director Coulson, he decides to hold his tongue. Watching Rumlow’s face as he takes in their appearance is very satisfying. There’s no way the other man can’t have noticed Steve’s smell all over Bucky, or the way that small nips have clearly been placed over his mating bite. _Good_ , Steve thinks. Let the jerk know that he doesn’t own Bucky anymore. Nobody does. 

Though honestly, he and Bucky very much look like owner and owned. Steve’s all crisp lines and snotty posture in his suit, while Bucky’s hair is messy and gelled and he’s done something… smoky… to his eyes. Now that he’s actually wearing the leather pants, they look they were poured straight onto him. Steve thinks that if Brock knew what Bucky had on under those pants, he’d probably blow a gasket. The thought makes his lips quirk.

“All right, here she is.” Coulson speaks up, addressing everyone as a slim Asian woman walks over. “Everybody, this is Dr. Helen Cho. Sergeant Rogers, she’ll be implanting the chip.”

Steve nods politely at her, trying not to look apprehensive. It’d been explained to him earlier that he’d be fitted with a subdermal microchip equipped with GPS for this assignment. It’s for safety—to help keep track of him if anything goes wrong while they’re undercover. The idea of something that expensive and high-tech being used by the NYPD is laughable. The Bureau is clearly better-funded. Steve was a little freaked-out when he’d first heard they’d be putting something _inside_ his body, but Bucky had reassured him by showing that he already has one of his own, implanted under the skin between his fingers. 

Now it’s Steve’s turn. “How do these things go in?” he asks nervously.

“I inject it into you,” Cho tells him, opening a small case that she’s brought and producing what looks like a normal syringe. Steve swallows heavily at the size of the needle though. “The implant is smaller than a grain of rice. It’ll stay lodged in the tissue, right here,” she points to the spot between Steve’s thumb and index finger. “And you can keep it or have it removed afterwards.”

“Keep it,” Bucky advises, holding his own hand up. “It’s Stark’s design. You can program all sorts of shit into it. I’ve got my debit card and fitness tracker on it.”

Steve gives a pinched sort of smile. “Sure,” he says, though he doesn’t know how he feels about the government having the potential to track his every step for the rest of his life. “I’ll think about it.”

Doctor Cho directs him to lay his arm flat on a table. She sterilizes the injection site and tricks Steve into thinking he’s getting it on the count of _three_ , when in fact, like always, he winds up getting in on _two_. “Ow.” Steve looks down sullenly at his hand once the chip is in. That had actually really hurt. 

“Thank you Doctor,” Coulson says to Cho. He opens another case and pulls out what looks like a collar. Steve feels his face get hot. Somehow—Like the lace panties, perhaps—he hadn’t imagined the FBI would be supplying a BDSM collar for this mission. Coulson hands it over to Steve, telling him. “You need to be the one to put it on him. It has a locking mechanism that uses your fingerprint to open and close. Once yours is registered, it’s the only one the device will accept.”

Steve glances up to Bucky, who is smirking, and then over to Brock, who looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall. “Kay,” he says. He follows Coulson’s directions and scans his fingerprint in. The lock clicks open. “Oh,” Steve says. “Neat.” He goes over to Bucky, who still hasn’t stopped smirking. Their eyes meet and for a second, all Steve can think about is sex. With Bucky. While he’s wearing this collar. 

Oh dear lord.

“Hey dollface,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve’s eyes shoot up in alarm. But Bucky’s said it quietly enough that no one else hears. “You gonna collar me or what?” 

He’s still freaking smirking, and Steve wishes with all his might that he could either kiss it or slap it off him, but he can’t. Not out here. Not with Bucky’s boss and his freaking ex-husband watching. He brings the collar up and closes it around Bucky’s neck, listening for the telltale ‘snick’ of the metal as the lock catches in the back. Steve pulls back and finds that Bucky’s eyes have gone dark. “Is it alright?” he asks tentatively. “Doesn’t hurt or anything? Not too tight?”

Bucky shakes his head minutely. He very much looks like he’d like to get on his knees for Steve right now. “No,” he says quietly. “S’good.” Then he leans in and whispers, “You think they’d let me keep the collar after all this is said and done? The thought of you being able to control when I wear it gets me hot.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Seriously?” he hisses. “You cannot just _say_ that!” 

Bucky winks—freaking _winks_ —at him. “Sure I can.” And he steps away so that whatever talking they do now will have to be at a normal decibel. Steve glares at him. The level of sexual tension is, to his estimate, somewhere near a nine right now, and Steve thinks that later he’ll have to reevaluate his personal interest in BDSM, because he’s really imagining giving Bucky a good spanking for his efforts. He and Bucky stare at each other for a long moment, would probably _keep_ staring if nobody said anything. 

Luckily Natasha does. “Okay boys,” she drawls, pulling their attention back to the situation at hand. She holds out a tiny remote for Steve to take. It’s only got one button. “That’s for the shock collar you just put on him,” she tells him. 

Steve blanches. “Excuse me?” He holds the remote in his hand like it’s an explosive. “You can’t be serious?!”

Brock snorts. “It’s not real, you idiot.” None too politely, he explains that Bucky’s just wearing the collar to lend credence to the idea that Steve is a perverted degenerate who needs to resort to such measures to maintain control of him. Bucky will have to fake getting shocked if Steve wants to “taze” him. This info calms Steve down, though he does share a beleaguered look with Bucky at the way Brock emphasizes the “perverted degenerate” part of it. 

“Alright agents,” Coulson nods to Steve, “Sergeant. Let’s get this show on the road.”

.oOo.

The address they’re headed to is in Nassau County, all the way down one of the peninsulas of the Long Island Sound. They drive for almost two hours. Steve remembers having read _The Great Gatsby_ in high school, so when the houses they’re passing get so big that they start to look like those sorts of old-world mansions, he dares to ask, “Are we sure we’re headed the right way?” 

Brock grunts, “Yeah,” from the front seat. “We’re close. Maybe ten minutes.”

Steve and Bucky take the last few minutes of the drive to discuss what they’ve already gone over maybe a hundred times before. 

“Where do I keep you?”

“A series of three connected rooms. In a basement as far as I can tell. Heavily locked, well-furnished, no windows.”

“What do you call me?”

“Sir. What do you call me?”

“James, or pet.” 

Up front, Brock jams on the brakes more abruptly than strictly necessary at a stop sign.

“Good. Now remember you told Sitwell you’re still keeping me drugged, so I’ll be acting a little out of it. And you need to be bossy and confident when you handle me, like you know I’ll behave because you’ve been terrorizing me for the past two weeks.” 

Steve winces, but nods. “Do you uh, do you really think it’ll be an… orgy?” He tries to speak quietly since the limo’s partition is down, but a quick glance over shows that Brock’s clearly heard him. His hands have tightened on the steering wheel and the smell of possessive, displeased alpha has already begun to leak into the backseat. It rankles Steve on instinct.

“It’s a party for a bunch of rich, entitled omegaphiles,” Bucky says, bringing Steve’s attention back to the topic at hand. “They think they’re gods. Of course they’ll be taking advantage of their slaves.” He’s quick to reach over and give Steve’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry. You can handle it.” 

Steve grunts, not quite willing to agree. “Don’t have the best track record when it comes to leadersh—”

“Will you shut up about your track record?” Bucky says. He grips Steve’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “You CAN do this.”

Steve tries to smile, but he’s sure it comes out as more of a twitch of the face. “Thanks Buck.”

That’s about when they arrive at their destination. Brock slows down and takes them up an impressively-long driveway. When the car rolls to a stop in front of the house Brock puts it in park. He turns around and gives Steve a serious look. “You listen to me,” he says lowly. He jabs a finger in Bucky’s direction. “You make sure he doesn’t get hurt in there.”

Bucky’s countenance darkens. “I can take care of myself Brock.”

“And you don’t fucking touch him either,” Brock says, completely ignoring Bucky’s words. “You do what you have to do to play the part. But that’s all it is: a part. He isn’t yours and you need to remember that.”

“Brock!” Bucky is glaring. “Chill the fuck out. I’m not yours either. You don’t get to make statements like that anymore.” Huffing in annoyance, he opens the door on his side of the car and gets out. 

Steve goes to follow, but before he’s completely out of the car he leans forward, gets his head near the partition and hisses, “I know what you did to him.”

Brock’s shoulders stiffen. His head turns just enough for Steve to be able to catch his profile. “Excuse me?” he asks, voice deadly.

“You’re coworkers. I can’t help him with that.”

“I’m his supervisor, actually,” Brock corrects snottily. “He reports to _me_.”

“You bonded him without his consent!” Steve hisses, because he doesn’t want Bucky to hear. “Do you have any idea what kind of scum that makes you?” Brock doesn’t answer, but the scent of aggression rolling off him would be hard for even a beta to miss. Steve curls his lip in distaste but presses, “If you’re twice as smart as you look, you’ll be very careful around him from now on.”

If Brock has anything clever to say back to him Steve never hears it, because he’s quick to get out of the car and slam the door shut. Bucky is there, leaning against the side of the car and looking unimpressed. “Defending my honor, Steve?”

“He’s an ass,” Steve says, feeling like he has to defend himself against Bucky’s stare.

“Yeah he is. But I don’t need you making threats on my behalf. I can take care of myself just fine.”

Steve nods, not wanting to argue when they’re literally outside of the mansion where this party is supposed to be taking place. If they were wearing wires, Steve is sure Coulson would be horrified. Stepping up to Bucky, Steve puts a hand around the back of his neck in a possessive gesture—just in case someone’s watching. “You’re right,” he says, even though he’s holding Bucky firmly. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Bucky seems appeased by how quick Steve is to apologize. “You’re a guy, Rogers,” he mumbles.

Steve isn’t sure what that means, but he gives Bucky a vague smile in case it means something good. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the remote to Bucky’s fake shock collar. He holds it up only half-teasingly. “Behave from now on, or else.” He presses the button and, of course, nothing happens.

Bucky’s mouth ticks up as if he’ll smile, but he seems to reign himself in. He loosens his posture and relaxes his face into a vaguely-drugged look. It’s actually quite impressive, and it makes Steve hope that he can manage to be half as good an actor as Bucky clearly is. He hopes that he can manage to make the right calls once they’re inside, but he doesn’t feel too confident about it. Confidence has been hard to come by since the explosion. “Come on slave boy,” he says, pulling Bucky along by his one arm towards the mansion’s front steps. “This is going to be a long night.”


	8. Bucky: Sitwell's Party

They get to the front door and Steve reaches out and rings the doorbell with his left hand. He’s still got his right around the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him securely. It actually feels rather nice and Bucky has to fight the urge to turn into Steve and kiss him square on the mouth. Steve leans in then, breath warm on Bucky’s ear as he says, “Just like we discussed, okay? Don’t be nervous.”

If he didn’t know him any better Bucky would think that Steve was confident, but he _does_ know him better and Bucky can see the cracks in Steve’s demeanor, can see how nervous he really is. Hell, he’s become intimately familiar with Steve’s scent and he can _smell_ the small change that is his insecurity peeking through. And here he is telling Bucky not to be nervous? Poor Steve. He’s confided a little of his confidence issues to Bucky in the few weeks that they’ve known each other, but Bucky knows there’s still a lot that he holds back. He instantly softens at the thought and leans into Steve’s side, telling him, “Hey, you can do this. You are _still_ a great cop.” 

Steve inhales and is about to say something back, but then the door is opening and he pulls himself back from Bucky a bit, fingers re-tightening on his neck and pushing him forward through the front door.

The inside of the house is just as grand as the outside. The foyer kind of reminds Bucky of the mansion from _The Sound of Music_. But instead of Captain Von Trapp and seven children, they’re greeted by the sight of dozens of well-dressed Alphas and their respective under-dressed omegas. Bucky shoots Steve a quick glance that he hopes reads _told you so_. Everyone’s dressed as Bucky had said they would be—a bunch of drugged-up sex slaves and their masters. It’s extremely disconcerting, but not unexpected. Bucky notices that Steve seems a little frozen on the spot, and he makes a noise in his throat to get his attention. “Snap out of it, _Sir_ ,” he hisses, and thankfully Steve does. Steve’s hand tightens marginally on his neck and Bucky leans into it. “That’s better,” he says, quiet enough for only the two of them to hear. “Don’t forget who you are,” he warns.

Steve nods tightly. “Dr. Steven Grant, cardiologist, rich guy supreme, omegaphile.”

“Act like it,” Bucky says, then he shuts up. They walk further into the foyer and Bucky uses the time before they’re noticed and pulled into conversation to take in his surroundings. The house has rooms leading off in every direction from the foyer. The lights are low but he can make out maybe fifty, sixty people from where he’s standing. Out of sight there are undoubtedly more, and that means there are a lot of captive omegas here. Bucky’s gut churns with the need to free them all and arrest every scumbag who’s got one. He knows he has to be patient though. He uses Steve’s hand on the back of his neck to ground him. 

They walk into another room, this one with lower ceilings and music playing from speakers in the walls. Steve guides Bucky over to a couch and he sits, trying to draw Bucky in next to him. But Bucky knows the role he’s supposed to be playing and instead sinks to the floor at Steve’s feet. He gives Steve a warning glare, and Steve looks apologetic. Bucky’s heart melts a little more for the guy. There really isn’t a mean bone in Steve’s body. It’s going to be up to Bucky to keep this charade going. 

Settled at Steve’s feet, Bucky can see the other omegas in the room in similar positions. There’s an alpha on the same sofa as theirs and he’s got his omega undoing the button to his slacks and pulling him out. Bucky looks away, disgusted.

“Steven!” 

Bucky’s eyes snap up and he feels Steve’s legs shift at his back. “Jasper,” Steve greets, sounding pleased. “How are you?”

“Good, good. So glad you could make it. What do you think?”

“S’nice,” Steve says. “A lot of people here.”

“Don’t worry,” Jasper reassures him. “They’ve all been vouched for. Nothing that happens here tonight goes beyond the doors. You can be assured of that.”

“Hm. Good to know.” Steve’s hand appears, heavy and warm, on Bucky’s shoulder—the one that’s missing an arm. “I have to thank you again for him,” he says. “He’s been wonderful.”

“Oh good!” Jasper smiles down at Bucky like he’s some dog that’s been well-behaved, and Bucky tries to approximate some sort of timid look. All he really wants to do is punch this man in the mouth. “He’s gorgeous,” Jasper says, quickly ignoring Bucky and turning his attention back to Steve. “Like I said; one of our better-behaved ones.” 

“Yeah.”

“So,” Jasper gestures out to the rest of the room. “There’s food and drinks, and plenty of people willing to put on a show if you like.” He winks. “Or you could volunteer yours…”

“James,” Steve supplies, knowing that Sitwell’s angling for what he calls his slave. “His name’s James.”

“Right. I’d forgotten. Well he’s a handsome boy” –Bucky wants to snort, he’s thirty fucking years old for Christ’s sake—“I’m sure everyone would enjoy seeing him in action.” Sitwell smiles and doesn’t elaborate any further before he turns away and heads off. He doesn’t really need to elaborate though, Steve and Bucky both know what he means.

“Ew,” Bucky says at Steve’s knees.

“Down boy,” Steve tuts, drawing an ireful gaze from Bucky. “I’m not going to make you do anything.”

“No?” Bucky turns on his knees so that he’s facing Steve. “You sure you don’t want to?”

The way that Steve’s mouth gapes open is a little funny, and Bucky has to fight not to smile. Instead, he kneels up higher and pushes Steve’s legs apart so that he can get between them. He lets his hand trail up the inseam of Steve’s pants, stopping when his it meets the crest of Steve’s leg, just to the side of his crotch. “The party’s just gotten started,” he comments lightly, though the gaze he’s giving Steve from beneath his lashes is anything but. “We could have some fun.”

“Fun?” Steve hisses, looking around nervously. “Bucky you can’t!” His cheeks are quickly darkening in the blush that Bucky’s come to know so well.

“Why not?” Bucky asks. Steve’s embarrassment is cute, but also ridiculous, since there’s a guy receiving a blowjob not three meters away. “We’re not wired. Nobody will know what we’re doing.”

“Yeah but…” Steve flounders. 

“There’re people having sex all around here,” Bucky says, keeping his eyes on Steve’s as he slides his hand over the bulge in his pants. He’s not hard, not yet, but Bucky can feel him twitch under his hand in interest. Suddenly he really, really wants to get his eyes on Steve’s cock again. “Come on,” he whispers, rubbing his palm over the fabric that’s hiding what he wants. “When else are you ever going to get the chance to get blown in public?”

Steve groans. “Don’t tell me this is on your kink list too?”

Bucky grins wickedly, though he is quick to tamp it down. Instead, he focuses on trying to get Steve’s belt buckle undone with just one hand. It’s troublesome but after a long moment he manages, and he undoes the button and zipper of Steve’s slacks too. “Help a guy out here,” he says, and watches with hungry eyes as Steve lifts his hips enough to get his pants and briefs down far enough to expose himself. Bucky’s mouth waters at the sight of Steve’s flaccid cock. “Want to feel you get hard inside my mouth,” he murmurs, then surges forward.

Steve curses, fingers flying right to Bucky’s head and weaving through his hair. He hisses as Bucky gets his mouth around him and starts sucking lightly. “Oh! Careful,” he says. “Buck, slow.”

Bucky flicks his eyes up to meet Steve’s, doesn’t look away as he holds Steve’s cock in his mouth and feels it grow against his tongue. He wasn’t lying—he fucking loves this. Steve isn’t small by any means and the only time Bucky can really fit his whole, alpha-sized cock in his mouth is when he starts out with him soft like this. It’s the best feeling in the world, to feel Steve swell in him, to know that he’s the one who’s causing it. He moans low in his throat as Steve gets bigger, taking pleasure in the fact that Steve can clearly feel the vibrations. He brings his hand up and holds Steve’s balls in it, rolling them around the way he knows Steve likes. “Mmph,” he says, pushing his face down further and choking himself on Steve’s now-erect cock.

“Holy—” Steve uses his grip in Bucky’s hair to push him back. Bucky’s lips ‘pop’ audibly as the crown of Steve’s cock slips from his lips. 

“Whad’ya do that for?” he breaths, smiling spit-slick up at him.

Steve swats him across the face—it’s light enough, but it makes Bucky moan like a whore. He’s sure his eyes are shining when he looks back up to Steve. “Yeah?” he breathes.

The fingers in his hair tighten cruelly and Bucky has to fight not to moan again. He feels triumphant at having gotten Steve all riled up. Above, Steve is bending over him to hiss in his ear. “Half the fucking room is watching now.”

Bucky hums. “Guess I have no choice but to finish this performance then, huh?

Steve makes some grumpy sort of noise his throat. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Uh huh.” Bucky swipes his tongue out along his lower lip, lewd. “And you’re my master right? So you gotta make me.” There’s nothing Bucky likes more in the world than being made to do things in bed, and even though he grunts in discomfort when Steve’s fingers pull his hair and yank him unceremoniously back down onto his cock, inside he’s cooing in happiness. Never let it be said that omega stereotypes didn’t come from somewhere. Bucky loves sucking cock.

It takes awhile, but eventually Bucky gets Steve to the point where he’s so close that he’s making grunts and growls and all the sorts of sounds that Bucky knows he’d never willingly make outside of the privacy of the bedroom. It makes Bucky smirk around Steve’s cock and push himself down even farther, until his nose is against Steve’s pubic hair and Steve is trembling and at first Bucky doesn’t even know he’s shooting off in his throat because he’s too busy gagging himself to notice. When he does notice he pulls himself off with a messy sound, making sure to let a little bit of Steve’s come leak over his lips and back down onto his red and swollen cock.

“ _God_ ,” Steve groans, lust-darkened eyes appreciating the sight. He pets a little at Bucky’s cheek and Bucky licks out with his tongue, swallows the load that Steve’s just given him. One glance down shows him that Steve didn’t pop a knot, and Bucky’s relieved for Steve’s sake. It would’ve made the evening much more uncomfortable for him.

“Shit, that was hot.”

Steve tenses, his eyes shooting up to the person who’s behind Bucky. The person who’s ostensibly just spoken. He hurriedly puts himself back in his pants, doing them up with a blush. 

“You get him from Hydra?” the voice behind Bucky asks. 

Steve manages to answer, “Yeah. Um, yes. I did.” He sounds a little less embarrassed than he looks, which Bucky guesses is a good thing. For his part, he slowly turns around on his knees so that he’s facing the stranger, but he makes sure to keep his eyes fixed to the ground in a show of subservience. The man in front of Bucky bends over to put his face at his level and he takes Bucky’s chin in his hand. “What’s your name?” he asks, speaking to Bucky like he’s dumb. 

“James, Sir,” Bucky answers quietly. The man laughs.

“He’s a good one.”

“…Thanks.” Steve sounds anything but thankful and Bucky wishes he had a way to tell Steve to lighten up. These alphas are all supposed to be like-minded individuals, after all, and Bucky’s just there to be a plaything. “Can I help you with something?” Steve asks.

The man in front of Bucky nods and straightens up. “Sitwell wanted to see you,” he says. “Sent me to bring you back.”

“Oh.” Steve stands and after a moment Bucky does too. “It’s okay if he comes back too, right?” Steve asks, indicating Bucky.

The man shrugs. “I guess so.”

They all make their way through the room to another door on the back wall. The man pushes through and they follow, and on the other side is an office, richly appointed and dark. Sitwell is seated behind the room’s desk, looking like he’s been waiting for them. “Steve,” he greets amicably, big smile on his face. “I just saw your email. Why didn’t you say anything?” His smile turns sly and he glances at Bucky. “Wanted to have a little pleasure before business, eh?”

Steve smirks and it’s an improvement on his acting. “Yeah. But anyway, about the email?”

Sitwell sobers a bit. “You want to get into business with us.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?” Sitwell peers at Steve suspiciously, like he’s trying to figure him out, figure out if he’s serious or not. “What can you offer us?”

Steve shrugs, sticking his hands into his suit pants like some nonchalant businessman. “I’ve got a friend in the city; a cop in vice.” Sitwell stiffens minutely and Steve lets an easy smile bloom on his face. “Naw, don’t get nervous. He’s like us.”

“Oh?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. He told me he’d be willing to, um, detain certain people he picks up—junkies, prostitutes; easy marks. Said he could supply for your operation if he and his buddies—myself included—could get a lower cost pick of your prime slaves.”

“Did he now?” Sitwell’s eyes are still slitted in suspicion. “It’s pretty risky isn’t it, bringing business like this up with a cop?”

Steve shrugs. “Normally I’d say yes. But I’ve known this guy for ages. Treated his daughter for a heart defect when she was born.”

Bucky mentally raises an eyebrow, impressed. _Way to work in the alias, Steve_.

“And anyhow, he’s desperate to get his hands on someone like James.” Steve jerks his head back in Bucky’s direction. Sitwell’s eyes follow and Bucky retrains his eyes on the floor. “He wants what I’ve got. I said I could help him out. What do you think? Can we do business?”

“I don’t know…” Sitwell says, still sounding unconvinced. He stands up and comes around the desk, not taking his eyes off of Steve. “I get that you like what we sell, but not many people are this eager to get more involved. It’s very unusual.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, and Bucky wishes he could see the other man’s face. He says a silent prayer for Steve to keep his cool and not be intimidated by Sitwell’s suspicion. They can’t blow their cover now. Not when they’re so close…

“Most clients only ever want one omega,” Sitwell is saying. “Why are you so eager for more? Can you even handle more?”

Steve snickers. “You haven’t seen my estate.” He nods back at Bucky. “Where I keep him? It’s massive, and secure. Plenty of room to keep at least three more, no problem. And as to why?” He shrugs. “Suffice it to say I like variety.”

Sitwell’s quiet for a long moment. “You think you can control four omegas?” He still sounds disbelieving. Bucky feels his muscles coiling tighter. Sitwell isn’t going for it. “Prove it,” Sitwell says, folding his arms and leaning back on his desk.

Steve shrugs. He turns and looks at Bucky. “Come over here,” he snaps, and Bucky is quick to obey. If this is what he thinks it is, then Bucky has to think that it’ll convince Sitwell of Steve’s sincerity. Luckily, they’ve planned for the particular scenario of having their loyalty questioned. Steve knows just what to do. He waits for Bucky to kneel in front of him, then he’s reaching under his jacket and retrieving a small handgun from its hiding spot. 

“What the fuck?!” Sitwell snarls. “No guns are allowed at these—”

“Calm down,” Steve drawls, every bit the entitled alpha he’s supposed to be playing. “I just want to show you.”

“Show me what? For fuck’s sake!” Sitwell nearly jumps out of his shoes when he sees Steve hand the gun down to Bucky, who takes it without question even as he’s kneeling subserviently at Steve’s feet. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Just a little demonstration,” Steve says. He gestures down at Bucky. “I’ve got him trained. Stop panicking. He won’t do anything.” Sitwell looks livid, and panicked. Bucky can smell the distress coming off of him but he holds the gun in his palm patiently, as if it’s any other object. “I told you I was good at brainwashing,” Steve is telling Sitwell, who still hasn’t calmed down. Steve turns his focus down to Bucky. “James,” he says calmly. “You can shoot me any time that you like.” He nods at Sitwell. “You can shoot him too, if you want.”

“JESUS FUCK! What are you—”

“Master no!” Bucky immediately lets the gun drop from his hands. It lands heavily on the carpet and Bucky throws himself down at Steve’s feet, clinging to his ankles and doing his best approximation of a devastated sob. “How could you say that?! Please! I would never. Never!” He fake-sobs, sounding for all the world like a distraught devotee who’s been asked to murder their idol. Above him, he can hear Steve sigh in satisfaction. Sitwell has stopped his panicked cursing. Bucky imagines he’s been stunned into silence, which was kind of the point of this whole scene.

“You see?” Steve says smugly. “He’s completely broken. He’d never go against me.”

Sitwell is quiet a moment longer, and then he exhales shakily. “You’re one crazy motherfucker.”

“I’m not,” Steve says. “I just know what I’m doing.”

“I guess so.”

“So when I say that I want in. That I can handle it. I hope you can see that I mean it,” Steve adds.

“Yeah I guess so.”

Bucky chances a glance up and sees that Sitwell not only looks impressed, he looks convinced. Satisfaction sweeps through him. 

“George,” Sitwell snaps, getting the attention of the man who’d brought Steve and Bucky into the office. “Take that,” he points to the gun on the floor. George comes over and retrieves it and Sitwell tells Steve, “You’re fucking crazy for doing that, but I have to say I’m impressed. Don’t ever do it again.” Steve nods respectfully, and Sitwell seems to sober. He addresses George again. “Take him back out,” he points to Bucky. “Dr. Grant and I need to discuss business in private.”

George takes Bucky by the arm and hauls him to his feet, and Steve looks on in alarm. “I want him here with me,” he says hurriedly. 

“Sorry,” Sitwell explains. “No omegas in the room when we’re discussing Hydra business. Company policy.” Steve seems like he’s going to put up some argument, but Sitwell claps a hand on his shoulder good-naturedly and says, “Come on now Grant, you’re a practical man. You’ve got to know I can’t very well divulge more with your slave in the room. I don’t care how well-trained you have him. It’d be a liability.”

“Well I—”

“Don’t worry. George will stay with him. He’ll be fine.” 

Bucky sees Steve cast a worried glance his way, but there’s not much Bucky can do to reassure him. He tries to say _I’ll be fine_ , through his eyes, but is only half-sure he succeeds as George pulls him out of the office and shuts the door.

.oOo.

Bucky pants against his own forearm, which has been tied to a link in the wall for… well he isn’t sure how long. Surely it’s been at least forty minutes since he was removed from the office where Steve and Sitwell are. It hadn’t taken George long to decide to have his way with him, that’s for sure. And since Steve is most certainly trying to find out Hydra secrets in the next room and he doesn’t need any distractions, Bucky’s bound and determined not to scream, no matter what they do to him.

He’s restrained against a wall, facing it. There’s an omega who’s wormed her way between his legs and the wall and she’s been sucking him off and stopping, sucking him off and stopping, at her alpha’s behest for the past twenty minutes or so. Bucky’s been gritting his teeth and digging his nails into the palm of his hand as hard as he can, but just because he’s disgusted that this woman’s being forced to perform oral sex on him doesn’t change the fact that they’ve fed him some sort of pill (he strongly suspects it’s an aphrodisiac), made him snort cocaine, and—worst of all—it doesn’t change the fact that her mouth is around him and it feels very good. If she hadn’t been specifically instructed to start and stop so many times, Bucky’s sure he would have blown his load by now. And that’s saying a lot, given what’s happening _behind_ him.

_‘Crack!’_

The cane hits his back _again_ , and Bucky grunts at the pain. He's been hit by things before but this is _way_ beyond what he considers fun. George is the one who’s having a field day back there, and Bucky is pretty sure some of the welts are bleeding. The woman starts sucking Bucky off again, and it’s just enough stimulation to keep his erection from totally flagging. As it is, her task of keeping him hard is becoming more difficult, and Bucky is losing focus from the drugs and his own exhaustion and all he can do is lean his forehead against the cool wall and hope that Steve shows up soon, because he’s probably close to passing out.

When Steve finally _does_ show up, Bucky’s immediately aware of it because the room is _flooded_ with the smell of angry, possessive alpha, and Steve lets out a furious growl the likes of which Bucky’s never heard before outside the movies. He sobs a little in relief at the sound of Steve hitting George, the sound of that god-damned cane rattling to the floor. The woman in front of Bucky immediately starts crying and flings herself away from him. Her master, previously off to the side, gathers her away before Steve can get near her. Bucky knows Steve wouldn’t have hurt her, but the other guy doesn’t. Steve’s on him in a second, streaming apologies and mournful things as he tenderly touches at Bucky’s back. Bucky hisses and Steve is quick to withdraw his hand and spew yet more apologies. 

“Fine,” Bucky manages to say. “Steve— _Sir_ ,” he corrects. “M’fine.” He wants to tell Steve to get him the hell out of there but he can’t very well go issuing orders to the man who’s supposed to have him brainwashed, so he just leans heavily against Steve’s bulk and waits while Steve yells at the people around them to supply the key that will unlock the manacle around Bucky’s wrist. Once he’s gotten Bucky free from it, it’s less than a minute before they’re out of the mansion and headed for the car.


	9. Steve: Raid and Aftermath

Things do not go well when they get back to the car. Steve gets Bucky in the backseat, Brock takes one look through the partition and then he’s turning around and yelling at Steve, ‘What the FUCK happened?!”

“Ugh, don’t yell,” Bucky complains. He’s avoiding sitting back against the seat (understandably so, since his back is covered in welts) and Steve reaches out to steady him. 

“You okay?”

“I’ll live,” Bucky mutters. He glances down at himself and groans. 

“What is it?”

Bucky turns rueful eyes to him. “M’still hard, and…” he shifts in his seat, discomfort on his face. “Wet.”

Steve is sure he makes a face, because Bucky shakes his head at him and explains. “They gave me something. An aphrodisiac I think. And that George guy made me do a line.”

“Of coke?!” Brock exclaims from the front seat.

Bucky rolls his eyes at his ex-husband. “No, of pixie dust.”

“How could you let this happen?!” Brock is growling. He reeks of aggression and it’s making Steve want to curl his nose. It’s making him want to get Bucky as far away from Brock as he can, but he can’t very well do that. They’re sitting in a driveway in the far reaches of Nassau County and they have a long drive ahead of them to get back to headquarters. Steve is once again regretting accepting Brock as their driver. 

“Can we get a move on?” Steve says tersely. “He’s hurt and we need to get back.”

“I want you to tell me how the fuck this happened to him,” Brock snarls.

“S’not his fault,” Bucky says. He’s leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder and Brock looks like he’s about to have an aneurism at the sight of them so close. “He had to talk to Sitwell. I had to stay behind.”

“You left him alone?!”

“Brock—”

“No, he let you get hurt.” Brock pulls himself out of the driver side door and comes back to yank the back door open. He grabs Steve by the shoulder as if he’ll yank him out of the car, and Steve is about to go willingly and start some sort of fight, but Bucky beats him too it. 

He leans over Steve’s lap and uses his one arm to grab Brock by the front of his shirt, halfway yanking him into the car. Steve presses himself back into the seat, trying not to wind up with a lap full of angry alpha. “Back the fuck off,” Bucky snarls, shaking Brock where he’s got his shirt in hand. He pushes him, hard, and Brock stumbles away from the door. “Now get in the fucking car and drive us back,” Bucky orders. He sounds pained and fed up.

Steve stares at him, impressed. For his part Brock looks shocked. He does what Bucky says and gets back in the front of the car, but he’s quick to turn around and glare at Steve. “You and I are going to have words.” He starts the car and drives none-too-slowly down the drive and towards the road.

“Did you find out anything?” Bucky asks Steve.

Steve pulls his attention away from Brock, trying to calm himself from the confrontation. “Yes,” he says. “Yeah. I’m in.”

“Really?!” Bucky’s face is bright and he looks happy and Steve loves it. He wants him to always look like that.

“Yeah. And I found out Sitwell’s the third in command. The leader’s a guy named Alexander Pierce. Sitwell’s gonna take me to meet him tomorrow.”

“Steve, that’s awesome!” Bucky grabs Steve’s face and plants a big kiss on his lips. He pulls back, looking proud and warm at Steve. “You did good Stevie.”

Steve flushes, partly at the nickname and partly at having pleased his omega. And … _Oh_. ‘His omega’? He’s surprised at himself for thinking that. Bucky isn’t his, he knows that. Hell, if Bucky knew that he’d thought that he’d probably be pissed. Steve glances nervously to the front seat. Sure enough, Brock is glaring at him in the rear view mirror and he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel. Oh, he definitely saw the kiss. “Thanks Buck,” Steve tells Bucky. “I’m sorry I had to let you out of my sight.” He turns Bucky’s shoulder to examine his back again. It looks horrible. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, I’m okay,” Bucky assures him. “It’s not exactly the worst injury I’ve gotten on the job.” He’s smirking, and Steve gets that he’s referring to his left arm. 

Up front, Brock growls again. “You’re probably going to scar from that.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky tells him tersely. “Let’s just focus on the case, shall we?”

“Psh.”

Bucky looks back to Steve, grips his hand In his. “This is good news. You’ll meet Pierce and we’ll have his location and with any luck we’ll know enough to bring down all of Hydra within the week.” He smiles, wide and proud at Steve, and it makes Steve’s heart swell. “You’re amazing.”

Steve smiles back, not really caring about what Brock’s thinking anymore. “We’re gonna get the bastards,” he says self-satisfactorily. Thank God.

.oOo.

A few days later and Steve has met Pierce twice (he’s a real piece of work), ascertained the locations of all the major Hydra cells, and provided the FBI with enough information that Coulson makes the call to move in on their target. It’s a rapid intake of intel that’s gone faster than anyone at the New York field office could have hoped. Even better, Steve’s been able to “acquire” slaves for Sam and several other officers in the precinct who all posed as omegaphile buyers, so now they have an additional twelve captives freed and in protective custody.

It’s time to save the rest. 

Steve and Bucky are in the back of a van, both dressed in swat gear. Bucky’s got his metal arm back, of course. He’s armed with several guns and, if Steve knows him at all, has at least five different knives hidden on his person. But Steve’s still worried for him. This raid is no doubt going to be chaotic and he doesn’t want to see Bucky get hurt. He’s been trying his best not to say anything about it, since he knows it’ll annoy Bucky to no end if he does, but when the van comes to a stop and Natasha yanks the door open to let them out, Steve just can’t keep his overprotective mouth shut. “Hey,” he says, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky pauses, rifle in hand and a questioning look on his face. Steve bites his lip but meets Bucky’s eyes meaningfully. “Be careful in there, yeah?”

Bucky purses his lips. Yep, just like Steve thought—annoyed. “You too,” he says. “I know you care about rescuing these people, but don’t do anything Stupid Steve. Follow the plan.”

Steve nods. 

“Let’s go.” Natasha’s got similar gear on as them, though she’s armed with pistols instead of close quarters rifles like Steve and Bucky are. They hop out of the back of the van and form a line. Natasha hands Steve and Bucky their comms and they tuck them into their ears. “Good?” she asks, and they both nod. “Let’s go.” The Hydra facility is a distance away but visible from their position. Agents Odinson and Morita and a team of a dozen others, led by Brock, are exiting their own vehicles. Everyone nods at each other and they start off towards the target.

.oOo.

“GET ON THE GROUND! NOW! GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND! ON THE GROUND!” 

Bucky and the team upstairs have cornered Sitwell and the other Hydra goons who’ve been policing the facility. Steve can hear them screaming at them to drop to the floor. Steve keeps his rifle trained downwards and continues on his path down the stairs, careful to keep his steps as silent as possible. He and the second team are making their way into the building’s basement, and if there are any more Hydra personnel down there they have to be ready. They haven’t found the omegas yet and they can’t afford to trigger a standoff. If there are any hostiles down here with the captives they’re going to have to take them out fast. Brock’s ahead of them all, taking point. Any animosity that he and Steve share has been tossed out the window since they suited up. There’s no room for that now, and even a hothead like Brock knows that.

Brock rounds the corner, and Steve can hear him say, “Clear. We’ve got victims down here.” 

The rest of the team rounds the corner just as Brock is flipping a switch that floods the basement in harsh lighting. Steve feels his breath catch in his throat. He lowers his rifle. There are no hostiles. The basement is filled with omegas. There have to be at least fifty of them, all sitting on bedrolls and restrained by collars and nylon cords to pipes that rise out of the floor. The other agents lower their guns as it becomes apparent that there is no threat on this level.

Brock puts a hand to his comm. “Coulson, are all hostiles apprehended, confirm?” There’s a pause, and then Steve can see Brock’s shoulders relax. He looks back at the rest of the team. “We’re good,” he tells them. “Let’s get these people free.”

Everyone fans out and starts doing just that. Steve spots a handful of kids at the far end of the room and his guts lurch. _Shit, not kids_. He immediately makes his way over to them and tries to offer them a friendly face when he approaches. All but one of the kids are looking at him as if he’s the boogeyman. With his swat gear and helmet on he supposes he kind of does. “Hey,” he says, speaking in the most comforting manner he can. Kids are generally very calmed by an alpha’s Voice, so he uses his. “My name’s Steve. I’m a police officer. I’m going to get you out of here.”

The one kid who hasn’t yet looked at him fearfully sticks his chin out. “Are you really a cop?” he challenges. He looks older than the other six kids, maybe twelve years old. 

The others range from maybe six to ten. They’re _so_ young, and Steve is doing everything he can not to dwell on that fact. “Yeah,” he says gently, and he lays his gun aside on the floor and takes a knee in front of the kids. He gets his credentials out and lets the oldest kid hold them. “See? I’m a cop. You can hold on to that while I get you guys loose. Now don’t be afraid.” He gets his utility knife off his belt and flicks it open. Several of the kids make fearful noises and Steve shushes them. “Hey, hey it’s okay. You’ve got these cords tying you up, see?” The children know what he’s taking about so he adds, “I need to cut them so you can get out of here. I’m going to take you somewhere safe.” He moves forward, careful to go slowly so he doesn’t scare the poor kids further. The sharp scent of ammonia hits Steve’s nose, and he realizes that at least one of the kids has wet themselves in fear. He winces but continues on, starts cutting through the nylon cords that loop the kids’ collars to the pipes. Several of the kids start crying as soon as he’s gotten them free, but they don’t run, which is good. “Okay.” He pockets his knife and holds his hands up nonthreateningly. “You see the other police officers right?” The kids nod, and Steve smiles at them. “They’re helping everybody else get free. We’re going to get you all out of here and find your parents. I need you guys to stay with me okay?” 

The smaller kids stare at him, still afraid, but the oldest boy nods. “Listen to what he says,” he tells the others. 

Steve figures this kid must’ve taken on the role of caretaker for the younger ones during their captivity. “What’s your name?” he asks him.  
“Lucas.”

He nods. “Okay Lucas. You’re in charge. Do you think you can help me get everybody upstairs to safety?” Steve knows that if he gives this kid a job to do, he’ll feel safer. 

“Yeah,” Lucas says. He takes the hand of the smallest girl and pulls her up. She’s the one who’s peed, a wet spot left behind on the mat where she was sitting. Steve’s heart clenches. “It’s okay,” Lucas is telling her. “Come on, we have to follow him.” All the other kids stand up slowly, still cautious but listening to Lucas. He nods at Steve. “Okay. We’re ready.”

Steve grabs his rifle from the floor and stands. He glances back toward the room, where the rest of the team is freeing the other omegas. _Jesus_ , Steve thinks. There are so many of them. He can’t believe they’ve waited so long to make a move on Hydra. All these people, all these _kids_ kept locked up in this basement for who knows how long. The thought makes his blood boil. “Come on guys,” he tells the kids. “Hold hands and follow me. We’re going to get you home.”

.oOo.

By the time they’re back at headquarters and the victims have been shuttled away by social services, Steve trudges tiredly into the changing room. He shucks off his swat vest, his tee shirt sweaty underneath from the adrenaline of the night. Weary and feeling drained, he sits down heavily on the bench between the lockers. He scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Hey, you alright?”

Steve’s eyes shoot up. It’s Bucky. He’s changed back into jeans and a sweatshirt, his hair still plaited back from the mission. He looks just as tired as Steve feels. It must be close to three am by now. “Yeah,” Steve says hollowly. He doesn’t say anything more. He’s been in a foul mood since the last of the kids got shuttled away, his thoughts plaguing him and making him angry.

Bucky cants his head, brow pinched. He must be able to smell the anger rolling off Steve. “Steve?” he says. “What’s wrong? Thought you’d be happy.” He comes over and sits next to him on the bench. “Reports are coming in from the other cells. We got them. All of them.”

Steve nods, tense. “Good.”

“Good?” Bucky lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder, doesn’t miss how he tenses up. “Steve what’s wrong? You’re pissed.”

“You’re damn right I am.” Steve shirks away from Bucky’s touch and stands. He’s quiet for a moment, facing away.

“What? What is it?” Bucky sounds hurt.

Steve whirls around to face him. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Did you know there were kids?”

“…What?”

Steve grits his teeth. “We waited. We were at that damned canning factory a month ago. We could’ve made our bust then but you stopped us. And those kids sat there in that filthy basement for all that time!”

Bucky’s face darkens. “I didn’t know there were kids down there Steve. I never saw any kids when they had me.”

“We could’ve gotten them out,” Steve repeats, anger still simmering under his skin. “God knows what was done to them in those two months. God knows how many others were sold to pedophiles while we sat on our asses. We could have gotten them out!”

“And what about all the other cells, huh?!” Bucky stands up, properly incensed by Steve’s words. “The hundreds we’re recovering from D.C? Chicago? L.A.? What about them huh? They’d still be trapped if you people had rushed in that first night!”

Steve scoffs. “‘Us people’? I thought we were all on the same team?”

“You know what I mean,” Bucky snaps. “I thought you were smart Steve. How can you still be blaming me?”

“I’m not blaming you I just—”

“Sure as hell sounds like it.” Bucky grabs up his duffel and shoulders it and stalks towards the locker room door. He pushes angrily through, leaving Steve standing alone. 

.oOo.

It takes a day, but eventually Steve can’t help himself and he texts Bucky.

 _“I’m Sorry,”_ he texts. _“I was pissed. Kids are hard. Kids make it rough.”_

Bucky doesn’t text him back for a long time, and when he does it’s with, _“Not my fault. You were an ass.”_

Steve bites his lip when he reads that, knows Bucky is right. Guilt’s been gnawing at his gut for the past week for how he attacked Bucky after the raid. _“I know,”_ He winds up sending. _“I’m sorry. …Can I see you?”_

Bucky doesn’t text back, but a little more than forty minutes later the buzzer to Steve’s intercom sounds. It’s Bucky, and Steve buzzes him up.

Steve immediately sees the fresh bite on Bucky’s bond mark. It's shallow--superficial, but the skin has clearly been injured. His face darkens. “Who did that?” he’s pointing, and Bucky scowls when he realizes what Steve’s referring to. “Brock,” he says, sounding pissed.

“What?!”

“I know, I know.” Bucky sighs, rubs the spot on his neck. “After I left the locker room he confronted me. He could tell I was upset, asked me what was wrong. I told him to mind his own business.” Bucky meets Steve eyes ruefully. “I guess he knew you were in there. He got all possessive, grabbed me and said…” he trails off, looking embarrassed.

“What?” Steve asks. “What did he say?”

“…Just typical Brock stuff. Said I was useless, only good enough to be used as the bureau's bait. Tried to bite me… well he did bite me obviously.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Bucky waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t go getting all protective Steve. I took care of it.”

Steve puts his hands on his hip, “What’d you do?”

“I kneed him in the balls and punched his face.” Bucky meets Steve’s eyes. “Think I might’ve broken his nose.”

“Good.” Steve knows he’s frowning. Probably radiating anger too but he can’t help it. “That’s the least he deserves. That man is an ass.”

Bucky sighs tiredly. “Yeah I know.” He walks over to the couch and plops down. He winces when his back meets the cushions and adjusts himself. 

Steve doesn’t miss it and he comes over and sits down, urging Bucky to lean forward. “Let me see,” he says. Bucky shoots him a glare but winds up turning so Steve can examine him. “Fuck Bucky.” Underneath his shirt, the wounds on his back have just barely scabbed over, and several of them still have raw places. “I hate to say it but Brock was right,” he murmurs. “You’re going to scar.”

“Worth it,” Bucky replies instantly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Have you even put anything on these?” Steve asks. The welts look inflamed.

“Hmph, no.”

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve scolds.

“Natasha doesn’t have a first aid kid,” Bucky argues. “And I haven’t gotten around to buying one.”

Steve tuts disapprovingly. “It’s been days since Sitwell’s party. You should’ve taken care of this.” He coaxes Bucky to raise his arms and pulls his tee-shirt gently up and off him when he does. His back is a mess. “These’ll get infected.” Steve sighs. “Come on.” He stands and gets Bucky to follow him into his bedroom. “Lie down on your front.” 

Bucky does, and Steve goes to fetch the first aid kit from under his bathroom sink. He sits down on the bed next to Bucky and starts putting triple antibiotic ointment on all the welts. Bucky hisses but lays still for him and lets him work. Steve shakes his head ruefully. “I really am sorry I let this happen to you,” he says. “I should’ve—”

“You did exactly what you had to,” Bucky insists, voice a little muffled from where he’s got his face in his folded arms. “And so did I.”

Steve is quiet, doesn’t say anything even though he’s silently wishing he could’ve better protected Bucky. “Thanks for letting me do this,” he says instead. “I… like taking care of you.” It’s not an admission he expects to go unchallenged, but surprisingly Bucky just hums low in his throat. 

“I really like you Steve,” he says after a beat. 

“Yeah?” Steve feels elated at the simple admission. Bucky hasn’t said anything like it before.

“Yeah.” Bucky shifts, and turns his head to look at him. “You’re a good man. I know that’s why you got mad about the kids.”

Steve looks down, abashed at the memory of how he’d talked to Bucky that night. “Yeah,” he says softly.

“You’re a good cop Steve. You have to tell me you believe that, after what you did out there.”

Steve nods. “I guess so.” He meets Bucky’s eyes, remembering what Brock had said to him at the station. “And you know that he’s wrong. You’re not useless. Don’t let an asshole like him take away your self worth.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right.” He gestures for Steve to come closer. “C’mere and kiss me.” Steve smiles, surprised, and does. Bucky’s lips are soft and pliant against his own, and the only thing that makes Steve draw back from the kiss is the awkward angle. He remains close though, running a hand through Bucky’s hair. “I think we should stick together,” Bucky says. “We’re good for each other you know.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Punk,” Bucky plops his head back down onto his arms with a grin. “I know so.”

“Hmm."

“Get back to work Rogers.”

Steve laughs, gathers more ointment onto his fingers, and does.


	10. Of Course I Couldn't Stop There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had to have an epilogue, though I'm not sure if it's fair to call this an epilogue since I'm probably going to write even more add-ons.

Steve reaches forward with still-trembling fingers, eager to get the collar off of Bucky’s throat. He scans his fingerprint in and tosses it in the vague direction of the dresser when it clicks open. In front of him, Bucky snorts. “Couldn’t wait to get that thing off me, could you Rogers?”

Steve grunts and tugs Bucky fully back against him, his sweaty chest pressed to Bucky’s back. “Nope.” Normally he’s got no problem with the collar. In his opinion (other than saving the victims and gaining a snarky new boyfriend, of course) it’s the best remnant of the Hydra case. Coulson may have smirked (and yeah, Brock really went red in the face) when Bucky brazenly asked to keep the biometrically-controlled collar, but Steve hadn’t said anything, just trailed after Bucky like an embarrassed little puppy. “Don’t like the marks it leaves,” he tells Bucky now, reaching around to hold the omega’s throat in his hand instead. 

“Shut up. You love the marks it leaves,” Bucky says. “You just think I’m too delicate now or something stupid like that.”

Steve bites lightly at the back of Bucky’s neck in reprimand. “Hush.”

“Hm.” Bucky wiggles back against him, pressing into their tie and making Steve moan. His hands find Bucky’s hips. 

“M’gonna come again if you keep doing that.”

“Mmm, me too,” Bucky moans. He keeps doing it, of course, and it only takes a few minutes before Steve feels him pulsing, passage contracting wonderfully around his knot as he gets off yet again. 

Steve grunts. “Greedy.”

“Yeah.” Bucky keens pretty noises as Steve fucks into him until he can get off. It’s weak—he’s already blown his load in him—but it’s there. When it’s over Steve rests his forehead against the back of Bucky’s neck. “Never been able to come twice like that with anyone else. Feel so good around me babe.”

Bucky makes some noise of agreement. He purrs when Steve slips a hand around to rest on the swell of his belly. He’s getting bigger by the day now. It’s why Steve seems to hate collaring him during sex. “You’re not going to asphyxiate the baby,” he reminds Steve. “I’m not asking for breath play,” (though that is something he normally likes), “just want something around my neck to remind me I’m yours.”

Steve puts his hand back around Bucky’s neck, gently of course. “You’re mine,” he whispers, nuzzling Bucky’s hair. 

Bucky chuckles in front of him. Since he got knocked up, Steve’s been even more languid and affectionate after sex than usual. He routinely kisses Bucky and pets him and murmurs sweet nothings into his ear until his knot goes down and they’re untied. And even then, he sometimes doesn’t let Bucky leave the bed for long after. Bucky complains, but he secretly likes it. 

Behind him now, Steve’s ducked down and started licking and kissing all the scars on Bucky’s shoulder blade, and Bucky has to practice taking calm breaths and not squirming away. He’s still not used to the affection Steve lavishes on his scars, doesn’t know if he ever will be. But the thought that his boyfriend likes that part of him, that he sees beauty in a part of Bucky that he himself cannot, is nice. It’s reassuring. It’s definitely helped his self-esteem. He sighs as he relaxes into Steve’s worship of his body. Brock’s effect on his body-image has been almost completely erased, all thanks to Steve. There’s just one more thing that remains.

“Babe?” Bucky says, still high on the after-sex endorphins and thus brave enough to broach the topic that he’s avoided for so long.

“Hmm?” Steve doesn’t remove himself from his task at Bucky’s scars. He knows what he’s doing—the shit.

“I want you to do something.”

“What?”

Steve isn’t really paying attention, which makes Bucky smirk. He’ll get his attention with this. “Want you to bite me,” he says.

Predictably, Steve snaps to attention. It only takes a hot second for him to wrap himself adoringly around Bucky, hands on his chest and rounded stomach, legs tangled and crazy kisses pecked onto Bucky’s neck. “Really?” he asks, not at all successful in hiding the excitement in his voice. “When you say bite, you mean—

“Over my old one, yeah.” Bucky’s been thinking about this for some time. Steve’d asked him early-on in their relationship but he hadn’t been comfortable with it then, hadn’t wanted to be bonded to anyone. Now he does. “You wanna?” he asks, already smirking because he knows the answer to that question like he knows his own name.

“Yes!” Steve hugs him tightly, heedless of his strength.

“ _Jesus_. Delicate pregnant man, here,” Bucky grumps.

“Only if you’re sure,” Steve says, clearly hooked on the idea but wanting to be the Alpha Bucky needs him to be. “I know how you feel about your independence.”

“I know you do. You respect it, that’s why I feel safe in letting you,” Bucky tells him. He knows Steve won’t try and tie him down like Brock had. Steve sees him as more than a just walking womb. …despite the fact that he is, as already mentioned, knocked up.

“Oh, Sugar,” Steve has resumed kissing the back of Bucky’s neck, happy Alpha scent radiating off of him like sunshine. “Tilt your head for me, yeah?”

Bucky hums, does as commanded. “Yes Alpha.” Never let it be said that he wasn’t a traditionalist in the bedroom. Steve growls possessively in his chest, a pleased sound. He fits his teeth over the scent gland on Bucky’s neck and nips. Bucky can hear him inhaling him. 

“Smell so good like this babe,” he says lowly, and Bucky knows he’s referring to the way he smells with the baby growing inside him. “Love it. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Bucky says. “Are you gonna?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah you ready?”

Bucky smiles into his pillow where Steve can’t see. He’s surprised that Steve isn’t waxing poetic first, the old-fashioned jerk (hell, if they weren’t currently tied and Steve had his way, he’d probably be halfway to Tiffany’s by now to buy a ring). Bucky doesn’t care. It’s little fanfare for an event like this but he really doesn’t need any. He’s waited long enough. “Make me yours,” he says.

There’s a pause, then Steve’s teeth are digging into him and sharp, hot pain floods his system. Bucky yelps, metal and flesh hands gripping Steve’s own where they hold him because this hurts just as much as he remembers; more even, since Steve has scar tissue to bite through. “Oh! Steve!” he cries out, whole body clenching, including his ass. The pain is quickly overcome by overwhelming pleasure, and it’s like another orgasm is triggered in him. Bucky feels his cock jerk weakly between his legs. “Fuck,” he moans. “Stevie.”

Steve pulls his mouth away and shushes him, pets up and down his side and around to his stomach. Damn fool can’t keep his hands off it. “Shh,” he soothes, going back to mouth and lick at the wound he’s just created on Bucky’s neck. Bucky can smell the blood, but even better than that he can smell his and Steve’s scents mixing, can _feel_ Steve’s pheromones sinking into him, creating the bond. He sighs and relaxes into Steve’s hold. “Always knew I’d give into you one day, jerk,” he murmurs, and Steve makes an indignant noise behind him. Bucky huffs a laugh. “Glad I did though.”

“Yeah? Steve asks, sounding totally gone for him. It’s okay, because Bucky kind of is too.

“Yeah.”


End file.
